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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


C^<r     J, 


/yi/v\.(PL- 


/l/VtX^^L/V-nA^'L^^L-,     lArtXyptJ    Lcr-irjJ 


(Oy^AAAA/i^yP\ 


av     I^JL, 


Sweetheart  Travellers 


INTO   THE   WOODS. 


Page  169. 


A  ChIUD'5  BOOK  FOR,  ChlLORCN".  rOl^WO!*\CK 

AND  roK.  RG>r. 


fey 


5  K..CR.OCKGTT 


AOThOK  OF    "TnCSTlCKIT    r\\r{\orLf<<'    'Tut  f^AIOCKS, 


ILLUSTRA  TED  BY  GORDON  BROWNE 
AND  W.  H.  C.  GROOM E 


IRew  L^ork  an^  UoiiDon 
FREDERICK   A.  STOKES    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copierigbt,  1895,  b^ 
jfrcfcertcl?  H.  Stohes  Company. 


All  rights  reserved. 


(,_^  Z/  /tM^ 


BeMcateO 

To   all  iv/io   have    Sweethearts 
of  theij-   0T.OH 
A>ui  to   those  others 
Who   only   xvish    they  had 


«rA-*~t.*-»  ->w  JB 


PRFFACE. 


I  KNOW  well  that  I  cannot  give  these  vagrom 
*  chronicles  their  ri^ht  daintiness.  I  have 
grown  too  far  from  the  grass  and  the  good 
smell  which  it  used  to  give  when  it  came  well- 
nigh  to  ni)'  knee.  They  ouglit  to  be  full  of  the 
glint  of  spring  tlowers,  when  the)'  are  wet  and 
the  sun  shines  slantways  upon  them  ;  full  of 
freshening  winds  and  withdrawing  clouds,  and. 
above  all,  of  the  unbound  gladness  of  children's 
laughter.  But  when  I  come  to  look  at  them, 
they  seem  little  better  than  hill  flowers  in  a 
herbarium,  pinched  and  pulled,  pasted  and 
ticketed,  correctly  enough,  no  doubt — but  not 
the  wind  flowers  and  harebells  that  curtseyed 
and  bent  as  the  breezes  blew  every  way  off 
the   sea. 

Yet,  because  four  years  ago  these  papers 
were  v>Titten  to  be  read  in  the  quietest  of 
rooms,  to  one  who  could  not  otherwise  accom- 
pany   our  wanderings,    I   cannot  be  content  to 


PREFA  CE. 


leave  them  in  a  drift  of  dead  magazine  leaves. 
For  they  brought  to  the  eyes  of  their  first  and 
kindHest  critic  and  only  begetter,  sometimes  the 
unaccustomed  delight  of  happy  laughter,  and 
again  the  relief  of  happy  tears. 

After  a  little  time  some  of  the  papers  came 
to  be  printed  in  various  fugitive  forms,  and 
presently  there  came  back  to  me  many  letters 
from  those  who  have  never  quite  been  able  to 
put  away  childish  things. 

Truthfully,  the  book  is  not  mine  but  Sweet- 
heart's. For  love  was  it  first  written,  and  the 
labour  of  making  it  ready  for  the  mart  of  books 
has  been  also  one  of  love,  akin  to  that  of  dress- 
ing Sweetheart  herself  for  the  morning  ride. 
For  who  could  look  to  see  better  days  than 
those  of  that  deep  summer  time  by  brook-side 
and  meadow,  or  high  upon  the  cliffy  corn-lands 
which  look  so  quietly  out  upon  the  rushing 
tides  of  Solway  ? 

Not  I,  at  all  events.  Yet  I  am  glad,  for  once 
at  least,  to  have  tasted  so  keenly  and  in  such 
gracious  company,  the  divine  goodliness  of  life. 

S.  R.  Crockett. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Midsummer  Day's  Dream i 

II.  The  Lion-Slayer ^ 

III.  Rutherford's  Kirk 13 

IV.  Twinkle  Tail,  Strokie  F.\ce,  and  Little  Mappitt  17 
V.  The  Honours  or  War 23 

VL  Sweetheart's  Tea  Party 30 

VII.  The  Swallows  on  the  Kite-String       ...  35 

VIII.  Sweetheart's  Ten-Shilling  Donkey          .         .         .  4S 

IX.  The  Unstable   Equilibrium  of  Grim    Rutherland  54 

X.  Of  Huzz  and  Buzz,  also  of  Fuzz  and  Muzz        .  65 

XL  Hill  Passes  and  Coast  Lands            ....  80 

Xn.  The  Peakl  of  Policemen 93 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIII.  The  Joneses  of  Criccieth 98 

XIV.  The  Home-Coming  of  David  Roberts      .        .  107 

XV.  "  Unwidder-like  Deeds" 115 

XVI.  The  Lost  Land  of  Lleyn         ....  125 

XVII.  A  Child's  Paradise 132 

XVIII.  Sweetheart's  Sweethearts       ....  136 

XIX.  The  Philanthropy  of  Birdnesting     .         .         .  147 

XX.  The  Magic  of  the  Rain            ....  156 

XXI.  Sweetheart  Travellers  in  Winter  Woodlands  167 

XXII.  Drippy  Days 182 

XXIII.  The  Revolt  of  the  Sweethearts  .        .        .  189 

XXIV.  Sweetheart  Pays  Calls 196 

XXV.  Hugo's  Opinion  of  Pigtails      ....  207 

XXVI.  By  the  Bogle-Thorn 216 

XXVII.  The  Rogue  with  the  Luminous  Nose    .        ,  231 

XXVIII.  Heart  of  Gold 243 

XXIX.  Criminals  in  Hiding            .....  253 

XXX.  I  Enjoy  Quiet 264 

XXXI.  The  Misdemeanours  of  Bingo          .        .        .  281 

XXXII.  When  Love  was  in  the  Making          .        .        .  288 

XXXIII.  The  Transmigrations  of  the  Princess  Melinda  303 

XXXIV.  "Good-Night,  Sweetheart!"           .        .        .  310 


•^UJ^OHS. 


^■^t'l^ 


Into  the  Woods 
Sweetheart 


Sweetheart  Travellers  .... 

My  Sweetheart  Trotted  Here  and  There     . 

A  Man  Far  in  Front 

Tea  or  Dinner  ? 

"  She  Wanted  to  Marry  Me  "... 
A  Tea  Party  in  the  Nukskry    .... 
"If  You  Please,  Mister  Father  " 
The  Dragon  Had  the  Splendidest  Long  Tail 
Above  the  Tors  ok  the  Highest  Trees 

Feeding  the  Robins 

A  Good  Average  Tramp  .... 

The  Tramp  Increased  His  Speed 

Grim  Gets  the  Benefit  of  Good  Intentions 

On  the  Way  to  Conway 

Through  the  Narrow  Conway  Streets 

"  Had  no  Enklish  " 


Frontispiece 
Title  page 


PACE 

I 
II 

i8 

23 
26 

30 
31 
39 
43 
43 

54 
59 
62 

65 
67 


XIV  LIST  OF  ILL  US TRA  TIONS. 

PAGE 

The  Law  Would  Have  a  Bad  Chance         ....  73 

A  Bunch  of  Flowers 76 

Coast-lands *  .         .         .80 

The  Road  is  Mended 84 

He  Rose  and  Sent  after  Us  a  Shrill  Howl  of  Derision  86 

Tremadoc 93 

Criccieth 98 

Gathered  Mighty  Store  of  Cowslips           ....  100 

He  Discoursed  upon  the  Glories  of  Criccieth      .        .  103 

The  Home-Coming  of  David  Roberts            ....  107 

Resting  on  a  Heap  of  Stones            109 

She  Looked  Very  Hard  at  Us iii 

Nevin  Beach 115 

The  Jolly   Farmer    Responded   with    His   Whip   Right 

Gallantly 117 

Out  upon  the  Great  Cliffs  before  Nightfall       .        .  121 

The  Lost  Land  of  Lleyn 125 

"A  Fair  Passage" 128 

A  Great  Plain  of  Sapphire  Sea            132 

"Is  It  About  Fairies?" 136 

"How  Would  You  Like  It  Yourself?"      ....  147 

"Why  Does  He  not   Settle  Down  to  Housekeep?"    .  151 

The  Magic  of  the  Rain 156 

We  Look  Out  of  the  Window 157 

Birds  of  the  Fields  and  Woodlands           ....  167 

The  Silence  of  these  Winter  Woods      ....  171 

He  Has  Been  Carrying  One  Foot  off  the  Ground           .  174 

Drippy  Days 182 


I 


LIST  01-  ILLUSTRA  TIONS.  xv 

PACE 

Sweetheart  Wii.i.  Be  Better  on  My  Back         .  187 

The  Revolt  of  the  Sweethearts 189 

Sweetheart  Pays  Calls 196 

We  Found  Him  Reclining 203 

Cousins  Twice  Removed 206 

Pigtails 207 

We  Were  Only  Savages 213 

By  the  Bogle-thorn 216 

Sweetheart  Turned  Her  Head  to  Count  the  Milestones 

which  We  Passed 219 

He  Gazed  Solemnly  at  Us 223 

I  Left  Sweetheart  to  Run  on  hy  Herself         .         .         .  229 

At  the  Foot  of  the  Bank 231 

I  Lifted  a  Double  Handful  to  Sweetheart's  Lu's           .  239 

She  Threw  Herself  Down 243 

Hugo  was  Playing  with  His  Horses            ....  247 

By  the  Loch-side 253 

The  Dutchman 264 

We  Made  Quite  a  High  Castle 275 

She  Retired  Hastily 2S1 

Meekly  and  Devotedly  will  Bingo  Follow           .        .  2S5 

Conway  Castle 2S8 

A  Laughing-stock  to  Every  Self-Respecting  Fish        ,  298 

Under-Gardener — that  is,  One  who  Pulls  the  Fruit       .  303 

"Good-Night,  Sweetheart!" 314 


lrv;:bWe^Tti^AK'iys'l'f^AV?;aZESII 


CHAPTER  I. 

MIDSUMMER    DAY's    DREAM. 
[Mid-Galloway,  iSgi.^ 

Y  SWEETHEART  is  sweet. 


Al 


so 


she  is  my  heart  of  hearts.  To  look 
into  her  eyes  is  to  break  a  hole  in 
the  clouds  and  see  into  heaven,  and 
the  sunshine  lies  asleep  ui)nn  Ik.t 
hair.  As  men  and  women,  care-weighted  with 
the  world,  look  upon  her,  you  can  see  the 
smiles  break  over  their  faces.  Yet  am  I  not 
jealous  when  my  Sweetheart  smiles  back  at 
them.  For  my  Sweetheart  is  but  four  years 
old,  and  does  not  know  that  there  is  a  shadow 
on  all  God's  world.  To  spend  a  day  with  her 
in  the  open  air  Is  to  get  a  glimpse  into  a 
sinless    paradise.      For  there    is  no    Eden    any- 


2  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

where  like  a  little  child's  soul.  One  Jesus,  a 
wayfarer,  thought  so  also,  for  he  said  that  with 
such  is  peopled  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

Not  once  or  twice  only  have  I  run  off  with 
this  sweetheart  of  mine.  For  there  is  a  seat 
woven  of  cunning  wicker-work,  on  which  she 
sits  safely  between  my  arms,  as  the  swift  tri- 
cycle, rimmed  with  the  prisoned,  viewless  wind, 
bears  us  onward.  There  were  a  blue  sky  and  a 
light  warm  wind  that  morning  of  our  first  adven- 
ture. It  was  just  such  a  morning  as  completely 
to  satisfy  the  mother  of  the  little  maid  that  she 
might  safely  be  intrusted  to  my  "courser  of  the 
air."  So  the  charger  was  brought  to  the  door, 
a  miracle  of  shining  steel  and  winking  silver 
plate.     And  now, 

"  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away  !  " 

My  lady  mounted — making  a  charming  Little 
Red  Riding- Hood  in  her  cap  and  cloak,  warmly 
tucked  about  also  as  to  her  feet  while  we  spin 
through  the  air.  "  Good-bye,  darling,  good- 
bye!" the  home-keeping  folks  said.  From  cot- 
tage doors  the  women  ran  out  to  wave  us  a 
last  good-speed.  The  smiths,  half-way  up  the 
village,  stopped    the    ringing    anvil  and   looked 


MIDSUMMER   DAY'S  DREAM.  3 

after  us  a  moment,  shading  their  eyes  \vith 
duskiest  hands.  Presently  we  were  out  into 
the  hio'h-road  between  low  hedofes  which  led  us 
to  the  moors.  The  track  was  perfect  as  the 
day  itself — hard,  stoneless,  flecked  WMth  alternate 
sunshine  and  shadow.  A  light  breeze  came  in 
our  faces  and  lifted  the  tangles  of  my  Sweet- 
heart's hair. 

It  was  the  very  height  of  living.  It  was 
hardly  ordinary  breath  we  breathed,  but  some 
"ampler  ether,  some  di\'iner  air."  Who  was  it 
that  in  haste  and  ignorance  declared  all  "  riding 
upon  bi-,  tri-,  or  other  cycles  no  better  than  a 
vain  wriggling  upon  a  wheel  ? "  Poor  man  ! 
This  proves  that  he  never  could  have  run  ofl^ 
with  a  sweetheart  like  mine  upon  a  good  steed 
of  Beeston  steel. 

"  Haven't  we  only  just  left  home?"  asked  in 
a  little  while  the  runaway  maid.  She  turned 
round  and  glanced  at  me  through  the  sunny 
ripples  of  her  hair  in  a  distracting  way.  It  is 
pleasing  to  be  able  thus  to  praise  her  in  print 
of  which  she  cannot  read  so  much  as  a  letter. 
For  though  it  is  her  private  opinion  that  she 
knows  the  letter  O  bv  sicrht,  it  is  a  fact  that  she 
has    been    known    upon    occasion   to   pass  even 


4  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

that  favourite  vowel  without  recoofnition.  But 
then  the  cut  direct  is  the  privilege  of  her 
sex. 

[I  am  commanded  by  Sweetheart  to  be  sure 
to  add  in  this  place  that  she  was  "only  four  and 
quite  little  "  when  she  said  and  did  most  of  the 
things  hereafter  recorded.  This  is  important, 
because  I  know  she  will  of  a  certainty  look  to 
see  if  I  have  kept  my  promise.  For  now  Sweet- 
heart is  quite  grown  up,  and  as  far  as  words  of 
two  syllables.] 

"  It  '11  be  ever  such  a  long  time  before  we 
have  to  go  home?"  she  continued.  "  We  are 
getting  very  far  away  from  home  ;  are  we  not, 
father?" 

The  sense  of  being  out  almost  alone  in  the 
wide  world,  and  thus  sitting  still  between  the 
galloping  hedges,  pleased  her  like  sweet  cake. 
She  was  silent  for  a  long  time  as  we  whirled 
along,  ere  she  turned  her  face  upward  again 
with  a  wistful  look  in  it  that  I  know  well. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at.  Sweetheart  ?" 

"  I  was  only  looking  to  see  if  you  were  really 
my  own  dear  ossifer,"  she  said.  "  It's  such  a 
long  way  from   home  ! " 

Now  this    was    a    distinct    breach  on    Sweet- 


MIDSUMMER  DAY'S  DREAM.  5 

heart's  part  of  our  unwritten  agreement  to  make 
no  "references  to  allusions." 

It  was  durino-  the  last  ride  w-e  had  tofjether. 
We  were  passing  some  barracks  where  the 
soldiers  were  tramping  steadily  to  and  fro. 
Some  non-commissioned  officers,  off  duty,  were 
working  in  their  little  garden  patches. 

"  Where  is  Nelly  Sanderson's  father's  observ- 
atory ?  "  my  companion  asked,  as  we  passed 
the  residence  of  a  pla)mate. 

"  Nelly  Sanderson's  father  has  no  observatory. 
He  is  a  soldier,  you  know." 

A  pause  for  thought,  and  then  : 

"  But  I  thouorht  that  all  fathers  had  observa- 
tories  ?"  was  the  interroofation. 

This  also  was  somehow  explained,  and  the 
small  bright  logical  faculty  went  upon  its  way. 

"  Well,  then,  if  Major  Sanderson  is  a  soldier, 
why  is  he  not  working  in  his  garden  ? " 

This  was  a  state  of  things  which  Major  San- 
derson's commanding  officer  ought  manifestly  to 
look  into.  Then,  sudden  as  a  flash  struck  from 
a  flint,  came  the  words  : 

"  Father,  do  you  know  what  makes  those 
soldiers  walk  so  smart  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  Sweetheart  ;  what  might  it  be  ?  " 


6  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

"  It's  their  ossifers  that  makes  them  walk  so 
smart." 

Again  a  little  pause.  Then  triumphantly,  as 
though  recording  the  solution  of  a  problem 
which  had  long-  been  troublesome  : 

"And,  father,  do  you  know  who  it  is  that 
makes  yo2i  walk  so  smart  ?  " 

"  No.  my  Sweetheart ;   who  is  it  ? " 

"  It's  mother  that  makes  you  walk  smart ! 
It's  my  own  dear  mother — she's  your  ossifer!" 

But  this,  after  all,  is  too  serious  a  subject  for 
even  my  Sweetheart  to  make  a  jest  upon.  So 
at  this  point  we  changed  the  subject. 

"  Do  you  see  those  pretty  sparrows  there  on 
the  hedge  ?  "  I  said,  as  we  continued  to  skim 
Solwaywards  along  a  level  road. 

I  did  not  look  at  the  birds  very  particularly, 
being,  as  it  were,  occupied  in  hunting  easy  water. 
But  the  little  maid  immediately  gave  them  her 
best  attention.  The  result  is  not  to  my  credit. 
She  looked  at  me  with  a  kind  of  crushing  and 
pitying  scorn  : 

"Those  are  not  sparrows,"  she  said;  "those 
are  chaffinches," 

Again  the  conversation  closed.  And  as  we 
went,    this  four-year-old,    who   did   not  know  a 


MIDSCMMI'.R   DA  Y'S  DREAM.  7 

letter  of  the  alphabet,  told  me  tlie  name  of  every 
tree  we  flew  past,  of  ever)-  bird  that  perched  on 
the  hedgerows  or  flew  athwart  the  path.  Anon, 
as  we  halted  to  rest  in  some  quiet  dell,  she  ran 
hither  and  thither  to  pick  the  mosses  from  the 
wall,  and  the  flowers  from  the  banks,  for  the 
"  dear  mother "  so  sadly  left  at  home.  She 
wrapped  them,  a  damp  and  rather  dirty  love 
token,  in  the  folds  of  her  cloak,  trusting  that 
the  resultant  "  mess  "  would  be  forgiven,  inas- 
much as  "her  little  orirl  fetched  them  because 
she  loved  her" — a  forgiveness  upon  which  she 
did  well  to  depend. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE    LION-SLAYER. 


S  we  skimmed  down  the  sunny 
braes  and  followed  the  road  as 
it  plunged  into  the  dark  shadows 
of  an  over-arching  wood,  Sweet- 
heart suddenly  gave  reins  to  her 
imagination. 

"  There  is  bears  and  wolves  here,  I  know," 
she  said,  in  a  far-reaching  whisper.  "  Yes, 
indeed,  I  see  their  noses  and  some  of  their 
teeth  !  They  are  just  a-waiting  till  we  pass  by, 
and  then  they  are  going  to  jump  on  us,  and  grab 
us,  and  eat  us  all  up — yes,  every  little  bit ! " 

Yet  this  most  alarming  prospect  seemed  rather 
to  deliofht  Sweetheart  than  otherwise. 

"  Hush,  father  ! "  she  whispered,  "we  must  go 
by  so  softly  and  quickly.  Ole  Father  Bear,  he's 
waiting  just  round  that    corner.      Now,   let    us 

And  so,  according  to  instructions,  we  did 
indeed  dH22.     Round  the  descending  curves  of 

8 


I 


Till:    1. 1  ON- SLA  YEA'.  9 

the  road  we  glided,  Basiling  through  the  rivers 
of  sunlight  which  barred  the  way  here  and  there, 
and  plunging  again  like  lightning  into  the  dark 
shadows  of  the  "  Forest  of  the  Wolves." 

'*/  would  not  let  a  wolf  come  and  eat  7ny 
father  !  You  are  not  friofhtened  when  you  are 
with  me;  are  you,  father?  I  have  got  a  gun, 
and  pistols,  and  a  big  two-handed  sword.  It 
has  cut  off  the  heads  of  twenty-six  lions,  besides 
bears " 

In  this  place  followed  a  sanguinary  catalogue 
which,  I  regret  to  say,  carried  on  its  face  the 
marks  of  inaccuracy.  If  only  half  of  it  were 
true,  ]\Ir.  Gordon  Gumming  bears  no  compari- 
son with  the  Nimrod  whom  I  carried  before  me 
on  my  saddle.  Even  Mr.  Selous  himself  might 
hide  his  dlminislied  head. 

"  And  if  a  wicked  man  were  to  come  and 
want  to  kill  m)'  father,  I  would  shoot  him  dead, 
and  then  tell  him — '  Go  away,  you  wicked  man  ! '  " 

All  w^hich  w'as  extremely  reassuring,  and  cal- 
culated to  make  a  timid  traveller  feel  safe, 
journe)-ing  thus  under  the  protection  of  such 
a  desperate  character,  all  arrayed  from  head 
to  foot  in  fine  military  scarlet. 

Now    came    a    long    uphill     push.      We    left 


lo  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

sleepy,  Dutch-looking  Kirkcudbright  to  the 
south.  We  were  soon  climbing  the  long  hill 
which  leads  over  to  Gatehouse  by  the  Isles  of 
Fleet.  My  Sweetheart  trotted  here  and  there, 
as  I  pushed  the  machine  slowly  uphill,  weaving 
an  intricate  maze  to  and  fro  across  the  road. 
Suddenly  there  was  a  quick  cry  of  distress  from 
the  undaunted  lion-slayer.  I  looked  back  and 
saw  the  little  maid  putting  a  hand  to  her  mouth, 
wailing  most  bitterly  the  while. 

"  Oh,  father  !  come  quick,  get  a  dock-leaf,"  she 
cried.  "  A  naughty,  horrid  nettle  has  stung  me 
on  the  hand  just  when  I  was  pulling  a  flower," 

The  required  leaf  was  not  at  hand,  but  I 
pulled  a  sorrel,  in  hopes  that  the  juice  would 
do  as  well.  Once  more  I  found  that  I  had 
reckoned  without  my  host. 

"  Oh,  father  ! "  she  said,  with  a  hurt  expression 
showing  through  her  tears,  "  that's  not  a  dock- 
leaf ;  that's  only  a  '  soorock.'  Get  a  docken, 
quick !" 

Obediently  I  searched  high  and  low,  and 
finally  discovered  one  under  the  hedge.  There- 
upon the  sore-wounded  member  was  duly 
anointed  and  kissed,  and  with  all  the  honours 
the  hurt  made  whole. 


#1  :pv. 


'^m-'^m"^ 


MY    SWEETHEART   TROTTED    HERE    AND    THERE. 


CHAPTER  III. 


RUTHERFORD S     KIRK. 

GAIN  we  mounted  and  rode.  The 
workers  in  the  neio^hbourine  field 
among-  the  corn,  above  the  blue  of 
Solway,  waved  us  greeting. 

"  Did  you  see  that  man  on  the 
top  of  the  cart  smile  at  you,  father?"  said  my 
Sweetheart. 

I  had  indeed  noticed  the  circumstance  of  a 
smile  passing  over  a  countenance  peculiarly 
saturnine.  But  I  also  knew  that  it  was  entirely 
unconnected  with  myself.  Soon  we  glided  into 
the  clean.  French-lookinsf  village  of  Gatehouse, 
after  a  most  delightful  spin  downhill  through 
leafy  glades  and  long-vistaed  woodland  paths. 
We  were  not  to  ''  put  uj)  "  here,  so  I  made  my 
way  into  a  little  baker's  shop,  kept  by  the 
kindest  of  women,  who  not  onl)'  provided  us 
with  biscuits  for  our  hunger,  but  added  also  of 
her    tender    heart    some    milk  for  "the   bairn." 


14  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

I  went  out  with  these  and  found  the  Httle  maid 
the  centre  of  a  somewhat  clamorous  throno-  of 
school  children.  They  were  fingering  all  parts 
of  the  machine — trying  the  bell,  the  valves  of 
the  pneumatic  wheels,  and  generally  driving 
my  Sweetheart  into  a  pretty  distraction.  Her 
mood  at  the  moment  was  the  imperative  affirm- 
ative, her  expression  most  threatening. 

"  Don't  touch  father's  machine,  bad  children  !" 
she  was  saying,  "or  I'll  shoot  you!  And, 
besides,  I  will  tell  my  father  on  you." 

The  turmoil  magically  ceased  as  I 
approached,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  deeply 
interested  and  fairly  silent  company  my  Sweet- 
heart ate  and  drank  as  composedly  and  sedately 
as  a  queen  eating  bread  and  honey  among  her 
courtiers. 

Again  we  were  up  and  away  !  In  a  moment 
the  shouting  throng  fell  behind.  Barking  and 
racing  curs  were  passed  as  we  skimmed  with 
swallow  fliorht  down  the  lonof  villag-e  street. 
Then  we  turned  sharp  to  the  right  at  the 
bottom,  along  the  pleasant  road  which  leads  to 
Anwoth  Kirk.  Here  in  Rutherford's  Quiet 
Valley  of  Well  Content  the  hazy  sunshine 
always  sleeps.      Hardly  a  bird  chirped.      Silence 


KUTIIERFORD'S  KIRK.  1 5 

covered  us  like  a  garment.  We  rode  silently 
along,  stealing  through  the  shadows  and  gliding 
through  the  sunshine,  only  our  speed  making 
a  pleasant  stir  of  air  about  us  in  the  mid-day  heat. 

We  dismounted  and  entered  into  the  ivy-clad 
walls  of  Rutherford's  kirk.  It  is  so  small  that 
we  realised  what  he  was  wont  to  say  when 
asked  to  leave  it : 

"  Anwoth  is  not  a  large  charge,  but  it  is  my 
charge.  And  all  the  people  in  it  have  not  yet 
turned  their  hearts  to  the  Lord  ! " 

So  here  we  took  hands,  mv  Sweetheart  and  I, 
and  went  in.  We  were  all  alone.  We  stood  in 
God's  house,  consecrated  with  the  words  of 
generations  of  the  wise  and  loving,  under  the 
roof  of  God's  sky.  We  uncovered  our  heads, 
my  little  maid  standing  with  wide  blue  eyes  of 
reverence  on  a  hioh  flat  tombstone,  while  I  told 
her  of  Samuel  Rutherford,  who  carried  the  inno- 
cence of  a  child's  love  through  a  long  and 
stormy  life.  Perhaps  the  little  head  of  sunny 
curls  did  not  take  it  all  in.  What  matter  ? 
The  instinct  of  a  child's  love  does  not  make  any 
mistake,  but  looks  through  scarcely  understood 
words  to  the  true  inwardness  with  unfailing 
intuition — it  is  the  Spirit  that  maketh  alive. 


1 6  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

"  The  sands  of  ti?jte  ai^e  sinking''  we  sang.  I 
can  hear  that  music  yet. 

A  child's  voice,  clear  and  unfaltering-,  led. 
Another,  halt  and  crippled,  falteringly  followed. 
The  sunshine  filtered  down.  The  big  bees 
hummed  aloft  among  the  leaves.  Far  off  a 
wood-dove  moaned.  As  the  verse  went  on,  the 
dove  and  I  fell  silent  to  listen.  Only  the  fresh 
young  voice  sang  on,  strengthening  and  grow- 
ing clearer  with  each  line  : 

"  Dark,  dark  hath  been  the  midnigJit, 
But  daysp7'itig  is  at  hand, 
Atid glory ^glory  dwelleth 
In  Tnimanuer s  Land  !  " 

As  we  passed  out,  a  man  stood  aside  from 
the  doorway  to  let  us  go  by.  His  countryman's 
hat  was  in  his  hand.  There  was  a  tear  on  his 
cheek  also.  For  he  too  had  heard  a  cherub 
praise  the  Lord  in  his  ancient  House  of 
Prayer. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


TWINKLE    TAIL,    STROKIE    FACE,    AND    LITTLE 

MAPPITT. 

LL  the  good  mothers  have  doubt- 
less been  asking-  what  my  Sweet- 
heart is  Hke  when  she  goes  a-riding. 
"It  is  all  very  well,"  they  say,  "  to 
tell  us  of  golden  hair  here  and  of 
blue  eyes  a  little  further  on.  But  do  not  forget 
that  there  are  other  people's  sweethearts  who 
have  golden  hair  and  blue  eyes.  W^hat  more  is 
this  Sweetheart  of  yours  than  any  other  sweet- 
heart ? " 

No  more  and  no  better,  dear  mothers  in 
Israel,  save  only  in  this,  that  she  is  mine.  And 
that  she  and  I  have  passed  many  a  hundred 
weary  miles  of  road  through  between  the  steeh* 
circlets  of  our  wheels. 

Her  special  care  was  the  sweet-chiming  bell 
clasped  on  the  shining  handle-bar  which  crossed 
in  front  of  us  both.      It  was  her   duty  to  clear 

17 


i8 


5  IV££  THEAR  T    TEA  VELLERS. 


the  way.      Let  us  say  that   we  were  on  a  long 
stretch  of  road.     There  was  a  man   far  in  front. 

"  Ting-a-Hng-ting  !  "  went  the  bell. 

The  man,  tramp  by  profession,  but  now  bent 


"a  man  far  in  front.' 


and    aged,  moved    not    an    inch    aside,  steadily 
plodding  on   his   way. 

"Ting-a-ling-/z>2^-TiNG  !  "      again      went     the 
bell,  with   more  emphasis  this  time,  for  Sweet- 


TIVIXKLE    TAIL.  1 9 

heart's  feelings  were  getting  the  better  of  her. 
But  still  there  was  no  move  till  we  came  within 
ten  yards.  Then  the  well-seasoned  tramp  moved 
reluctantly  to  the  side  of  the  road  and  stood  at 
gaze  to  watch  us  pass.  My  Sweetheart  wished  to 
stop  and  bestow  a  copper.  The  tramp  received 
it,  louting  low  with  professional  reverence. 

"  Mannie,"  asked  the  imperious  Httle  maid, 
"did  you  not  hear  us?  We  might  have  hurt 
you  ! 

"  Thank  you,  miss  ;  yes,  miss  !  "  replied  the 
tramp  stolidly 

"  Why  does  he  call  me  missf  was  the  next 
question  as  we  sped  off,  leaving  the  trudging 
cadger  shifting  his  meal-pokes  far  in  the  rear, 
for  this  was  a  new  name  for  our  Little  Red 
Riding-Hood,  who  has  as  many  names  as  there 
are  people  in  our  village. 

I  told  her  that  I  could  not  tell,  but  thought  it 
might  very  probably  be  because  we  did  not  hit 
him.  The  little  one  accepted  the  explanation 
with  a  simple  faith  which  might  well  have  made 
me  ashamed.  So  we  journeyed  on,  well  con- 
tent, the  little  birds  in  our  hearts  singing  their 
sweetest.  Presently  a  small  hand  was  shifted 
along  the  handle-bar  till  it  lay  on  mine. 


20  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

"  I  like  to  feel  your  hand,  father.  It  is  so 
nice  and  warm." 

"  And  so  is  your  heart,  my  dear,"  very 
promptly   I   replied,  as   a   lover   ought. 

When  we  mounted  our  patient  steed  at  the 
lych-gate,  our  eyes  were  yet  wet  after  the  sweet 
singing  in  Rutherford's  kirk — which,  being  now 
roofless  and  deserted,  with  only  the  tombs  about 
it,  seemed  to  have  reverted  to  its  original  title 
of  "  God's  Kirk  and  Acre."  The  Little  Maid, 
like  the  child  of  whom  Wordsworth  wrote,  was 
"  exquisitely  wild."  Her  merriment  brimmed 
over.  The  mood  of  silent  reverence  for  some- 
thing solemn,  she  knew  not  what,  among  the 
gravestones,  the  ivy-clad  walls,  and  under  the 
summer  stillness,  had  now  rippled  into  con- 
tagious mirth.  There  was  a  tinkle  in  her 
laughter  like  water  running  over  loose  pebbles, 
or  the  lap  of  wavelets  within  a  coral  cave.  A 
rabbit  scudded  across  our  path.  It  was  enough 
to  set  her  romancing. 

"Old  Brer  Rabbit,  he  knows!  Oh,  he 
knows  !  He's  taking  his  little  girl  out  to-day, 
too,  on  /iz's  tricycle.  Go  on,  old  Brer  Rabbit, 
or  Maisie  and  her  father  will  beat  you.  And 
then    your  little    girl  '11    cry  !     Did  you    know. 


TWIN K IK    TAIL.  21 

father,  Little  Girl  Rabbit's  name  is  Twinkle 
Tail?  Yes,  indeed!  Her  mother's  name  is 
Strokie  Face,  but  her  father's  is  just  plain  old 
Brer  Rabbit.  And  little  Twinkle  Tail  has  a 
dolly,  and  her  name  is  Little  Mappitt." 

"And  where  do  they  all  live,  Sweetheart?" 

"Why,  don't  )ou  know?  God  gave  them  a 
lovely  hole  to  live  in.  And  you  have  to  crawl 
far  in,  and  the  first  thing  you  see,  when  you  get 
in,  is  a  bit  of  blue  sky." 

The  Sir  Walter  of  the  wondrous  eyes  looked 
up,  to  see  if  there  was  any  twinkle  of  unbelief  in 
the  older  and  duller  eyes  that  glanced  down  into 
hers.  But  to-day  we  were  all  bound  for  the  land 
of  Faery,  and  the  faith  she  saw  was  satisfactory 
in  its  perfect  trustfulness.      She  went  on  : 

"  Yes,  a  bit  of  blue  sky  ;  and  then  you  come 
out  (if  you  are  a  little  rabbit)  in  a  country  where 
it  is  all  blue  sky — the  houses  are  built  of  bricks 
of  blue  sky,  and  the  windows  are  just  thinner  bits 
of  blue  sky,  and  Little  IMappitt  herself  is  just 
a  bit  of  blue  sky,  dressed  in  the  old  twinks  of  last 

year's  stars Oh,  what  a  pretty  bird  !    That's 

a  Blue  Tit.  He's  a  bit  of  blue  sky  too,  and  he 
lives  in  a  rabbit-hole.  Yes,  indeed,  I  saw  him 
come   out   amon<'-   the  leaves  !  " 


2  2  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

We  were  coastingalong,  now  through  the  arches 
of  the  trees,  now  bending  to  the  left  along  the 
seashore.  The  roar  of  the  swift  Skyrebiirn, 
heavy  with  last  night's  rain,  came  to  our  ears. 
"Father,  there  is  '  Mac'  Stop,  father!"  cried 
the  Lady  of  the  Bell.  And  very  obediently  the 
brake  went  down  and  we  stopped.  It  was  a 
painter  of  our  acquaintance,  an  old  admirer  and 
present  flame  of  the  Little  Maid's.  She  now 
responded  to  his  renewed  and  honourable  pro- 
posals by  vehemently  expressing  a  wish  for  an 
immediate  matrimonial  alliance — as  she  did, 
alas  !  the  faithless  maiden,  in  many  other  cases. 
But  I  was  compelled  to  shut  down,  in  the  char- 
acter of  the  ruthless  parent  of  melodrama,  upon 
"  love's  young  dream,"  and  speed  incontinently 
onward,  while  the  swain  with  the  fishing-rod  was 
left  lamenting.  But  woe  worth  the  day  for  the 
inconstancy  of  woman  !  As  soon  as  we  were 
out  of  sight  the  lady  said  frankly  :  "  Isn't  it  nice 
to  be  able  to  run  off  when  you  want?"  For 
Sweetheart  is  evidently  of  the  easy-hearted 
lovers  who  love  and  ride  away — at  least,  at  the 
age  of  four. 


TEA    UR    DINNER  ? 


CHAPTER  V. 


TITK    HONOURS    OF    WAR. 


OON  we  were  crossino-  the  rocks  of 
the  Solway  side — a  pleasant  land 
Open  to  the  south  and  the  sun,  with 
cornfields  blinking  in  the  hazy  light, 
and  reaping-machines  "gnarring" 
and  clicking  cheerfully  on  every  slope.  Past 
Ravenshall  we  went,  where  the  latest  Scottish 
representatives  of  the  Chough  or  Red-legged 
Ciow  were,  a  few  years  ago,  still  to  be  found — 
a  beautiful  but  unenterprising  bird,  long  since 
shouldered  out  of  his  once  wide  fields  and  lord- 
ships by  the  rusty  underbred  democracy  of  the 
Rook.  We  passed  a  fountain  of  clear,  cool  water, 
sequestered  from  the  sun  beneath  a  tree,  where 

23 


24  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

a  little  streamlet  "seeps"  its  way  through  the 
ambient  granite.  It  was  the  place  for  which  the 
Little  Maid  had  been  looking  all  day. 

"  Where  was  it  that  Sir  James  gave  mother 
a  drink  out  of  a  leather  cup?"  The  question 
had  been  asked  a  hundred  times  already. 

Here  was  the  spot.  Ah  !  no  more  will  Sir 
James  Caird,  greatest  of  agriculturists  and  most 
lovable  of  men,  pursue  his  pastoral  avocations — 
"  watering  his  flocks,"  as  he  loved  to  say,  by 
taking  out  his  guests  to  taste  "the  best  water 
in  the  Stewartry,"  at  this  well  by  the  wayside, 
fresh  from  the  lirks  of  the  granite  hills. 

There,  at  last,  was  the  old  tower  of  Cassencary, 
lookinor  out  from  its  bosoming^  woods  across  to 
the  Wigtown  sands,  where  two  hundred  years  ago 
the  mart3'r  women  perished  in  the  gray  ooze  of 
the  Blednoch,  The  small  girl  Sweetheart  had 
heard  of  this  also.  And  having  to-day  passed  a 
series  of  monuments  to  the  martyred  men  and 
women  of  the  Covenant,  she  now  wanted  to  know 
if  anyone  would  want  to  drown  her  for  saying 
her  prayers.  If  so,  she  frankly  avowed  her  in- 
tention of  saying  them  after  she  got  into  bed — 
the  depfenerate  little  conformist  and  latitudi- 
narian  that  she  is!     She  does  not  want  to  be 


rifF.    //OXOURS   OF    WAR.  25 

drowned.  So.  instead,  she  is  going  to  play  "Wig- 
town Mart)Ts"  with  the  oldest  and  least  con- 
sidered of  her  dolls  as  soon  as  she  o(:ts  home. 
Thus  history  and  martyrology  have   their  uses. 

Presently  we  wheeled  peacefully  nito  Cree- 
toun,  and  dismounted  at  a  quiet-looking  house 
over  which,  upon  a  small,  fixed  sign,  was  promise 
of  refreshment.  While  the  kind  and  motherly 
hostess  prepared  the  eggs  and  ham,  and  spread 
the  white  cloth,  an  important  question  was  dis- 
cussed. 

"  Father,  is  this  tea  or  dinner  ?  " 

''  Dinner,  of  course,  my  dear." 

"Then  why  did  you  tell  the  lady  it  was  tea?" 

"  Well,  Sweetheart,  let  us  call  it  tea." 

"  Then,  whether  am  I  to  get  no  dinner  to- 
day, if  this  is  tea — or  no  tea,  if  this   is  dinner?" 

The  conversation  was  suffered  to  drop  at  this 
point,  but  the  interest  did  not  lapse. 

"  Well,  father  dear,  I  hope  it  is  dinner  ;  for  if 
it  is  dinner,  we  might  get  tea  further  on.  But 
if  it  is  tea,  then  we  have  passed  dinner  some- 
where without  noticino"  !" 

For  the  angel  is  mundane  on  the  subject  of 
meals  and  sweets.  Also  upon  another  subject. 
The    hostess    had   two    comely   bo)s   who    were 


26 


SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 


brought,  all  dumbly  resistant  and  unwilling,  off 
the  street  to  be  introduced,  clinging  shyly  to 
their  mother's  skirts.  The  Little  Maid,  as  be- 
came a  traveller  and  a  woman  of  experience  in 


m 


"she  wanted  to  marry  me. 


affairs  of  the  heart,  went  forward  to  make  the 
advances,  which  is  a  graceful  thing  at  four.  But 
inexperience  as  to  the  proper  method  of  saluting 
little  girls  with   hair  all    aspray    about    scarlet- 


riiE  HONOURS  of  war.  27 

cloaked  shoulders,  kept  the  brig;ht  lads  silent 
and  abashed,  in  spite  of  maternal  encourage- 
ment. Plainly  thev  meditated  retreat.  There, 
'tis  done — a  chaste  salute,  which  each  gallant 
swain  wipes  carefully  off  with  the  back  of  his 
hand  I 

At  home  there  was  once  upon  a  time  a  parallel 
case.  A  mother,  friend  and  neighbour  of  ours, 
heard  her  little  boy  come  into  the  house  be- 
moanino  his  lot  with  tears  and  outcries. 

"What  is  the  matter  now,  Jack  ?"  she  said, 
thinking  that  at  last  it  had  happened. 

"O-hu-hu-hu  !  The  little  orirl  hit  me  on  the 
head  because  she  said  she  wanted  to  marry  me 
and  I  said  I  wouldn't." 

Nor,  even  when  expostulated  with,  could  the 
errinof  youno-  woman  be  brouo^ht  to  see  the  im- 
propriety  of  her  action. 

"  But  it  seryed  hini  right!"  said  Beauty,  for 
even  in  a  certain  place  there  is  no  fury  like  a 
woman  scorned.  And  taking  everything  into 
consideration    there  is  no  doubt  that  it  did. 

Being  thus  refreshed,  we  mounted  once  again, 
and  the  long,  clean  street  of  the  village  sank 
behind  us.  We  climbed  up  and  up  till  we  were 
immediately  beneath  the   railway  station,  where 


28  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

signals  in  battle  array  were  flanked  against  the 
sky ;  then  down  a  long  descent  to  the  shore 
levels  at  Palnure.  It  was  now  nearly  four  in 
the  afternoon,  and  we  paused  at  the  entrance  of 
the  long  hill  road  to  New  Galloway,  uncertain 
whether  to  attempt  it  or  not.  A  man  drove 
along  in  a  light  spring-cart.  Of  him  we  inquired 
reofardinor  the  state  of  the  road. 

"  Ye're  never  thinkin'  o'  takin'  that  bairn  that 
lang,  weary  road  this  nicht  ?"  he  asked. 

It  seemed  that  the  road  was  fatally  cut  up 
with  the  carting  of  wood,  that  much  of  it  was  a 
mere  moorland  track,  and  the  rest  of  it  unrid- 
able.*  This  might  do  for  a  man,  but  it  would 
not  do  for  little  Sweetheart  at  four  o'clock  of  a 
September  day.  Therefore  we  thanked  our  in- 
formant, who  raced  us,  unsuccessfully  but  good- 
humouredly,  along  the  fine  level  road  toward 
Newton-Stewart,  which  smoked  placidly  in  its 
beautiful  valley  as  the  goodwives  put  on  the 
kettles  for  their  "  Four-hours"  tea. 

Here  we  were  just  in  time  to  wait  half  an  hour 
for  the  train — as  usual.  During  this  period  the 
Little  Maid  became  exceedingly  friendly  with 
everyone.     She  went    and    interviewed    a    very 

*  It  is  now  very  much  improved,  and  is  quite  ridable  all  the  way. 


THE  HONOURS  OF    JVAR.  29 

dignified  station  master,  and  incjuired  of  him  wliy 
he  was  keeping  her  waiting  for  the  train. 

But  the  train  chd  come  at  last,  when  \ve  were 
whirled  WMth  some  deliberation  throuorh  the  wild 
country  to  the  eastward,  and  disembarked  at  the 
lonely  little  moorland  station  of  New  Galloway. 
It  was  growing  dusk  as  we  wheeled  home  along 
the  dusty  lanes  by  the  side  of  the  placid  beauties 
of  Grenoch  Loch,  the  Lake  of  Pair  Colours. 
We  entered  the  village  of  our  sojourn  with  the 
honours  of  war. 

"  Were  you  not  frightened,  Sweetheart  ? "  asked 
the  Lady  of  the  Workbox  when  we  sat  down 
to  "a  real  tea,"  the  stains  of  travel  having  dis- 
appeared. 

"  Oh,  no  !  cerLainl)'  not !  Even  father  was  not 
much  frightened  when  I  was  with  him.  Do  you 
know,  mother,  we  shotted  fourteen — yes,  more 
than  a  hundred  lions  and  tiorers — we  did,  didn't 
we,  father  ?  " 

A  pause  of  corroboration,  during  which  I 
blush,  for  really  we  had  not  destroyed  quite  so 
many  as  that. 

"Yes,  indeed,  and  father  and  I  went  down 
a  rabbit-hole,  and " 

[Left  speaking.] 


CHAPTER    VI. 


SWEETHEART  S    TEA    PARTY. 


HERE  was  a  state  tea  party  in 
the  nurser)'  to-day.  Sweetheart, 
Hugo,  and  Baby  Brother  sent  out 
the  invitations.  At  least,  Sweet- 
lieart  did,  for  she  is  nearly  five. 
Hiioo  (lid  nothino-  but  watch  for  a  chance  at 
the  box  of  rusks.  And  as  for  Baby  Brother 
he  also  did  nothino-  but  knock  over  the  tea 
table  after  it  was  all  set.  So  he  had  to  be 
tied  in  his  tall  chair  by  fastening"  his  broad 
blue  sash  throuo-h  the  bars  at  the  back.  Then 
he  said  very  loud  that  he  did  not  like  it  at  all — 
so  loud  that  he  brouo^ht  in  mother  off  the  stairs. 
This  was  a  chance  for  Sweetheart  to  ask  mother 

30 


SWEETHEART'S   TEA  PARTY. 


31 


if  she  would  come  to  the  tea  part)',  aiul  if  she  might 
take  the  note  of  invitation  to  the  study,  where 
father  was  workini;,  and  must   not  be  disturbed. 

So    mother   said    she   might,   ami    Sweetheart 
came  down  and  knocked 
very  gentl)-  at  the  study 
door. 

"  Come  in  !"  cried  some- 
one within,  so  quickl)'  that 
Sweetheart  was  quite  star- 
tled. 

"  If  you  please,  Mister 
F'ather,"  she  said  very 
politely,  "  Lady  Jane 
Howard,  Sir  Hugo,  and 
Lord  Baby  Brother  re- 
quest the  pleasure  of  your 
company  to  tea  in  the 
Castle    Nursery." 

That  was  the  way 
Sweetheart  said  it,  for 
she  liked  to  pretend  that 
she  was  either  a  duchess 

or  a  schoolmistress.  She  was  cjuite  determined 
to  be  somebody  really  great.  Of  course  she 
liked  best  to  be  a  school-teacher,  for  il  is  so  nice 


IF    YOl"    ri.F.ASE,    MISTER 
I  ATIIER." 


32  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

to  whip  the  chairs  with  a  little  cane  when  they 
are  naughty — and  then,  you  know,  they  mostly 
are. 

Now,  it  happened  that  "  Mister  Father,"  as 
Sweetheart  called  him,  was  a  little  tired,  or  per- 
haps a  little  lazy  (such  things,  alas  !  have  been), 
and  so  he  thouo-ht  it  would  do  him  Pood  to  eo 
up  to  tea  in  the  nursery.  He  came  in  after  the 
guests  were  all  seated,  looking  very  grave  and 
solemn,  as  Sweetheart  thought,  when  he  peered 
over  the  top  of  his  glasses. 

Then  Sweetheart,  whose  hands  shook  with 
the  pleasure  and  dignity,  made  tea  in  a  beauti- 
ful set  of  little  cups  without  any  handles,  which 
had  been  given  her  at  Christmas.  This  is 
how  she  did  it.  First  she  put  a  pinch  of  tea 
into  each  cup,  and  then  she  poured  hot  water 
out  of  a  little  teapot  upon  the  tea.  This 
pleased  father  very  much. 

"  This  is  just  the  wa}^  that  tea  ought  to  be 
made,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  know  that  in  China, 
where  tea  first  came  from,  that  was  the  old  way 
of  making  tea  ?  " 

Here  Mr.  Father  looked  very  wisely  through 
his  glasses  at  the  little  cup  and  sipped  his  tea. 

Sweetheart  felt  a  little  anxious. 


SWEETHEART'S    TEA   PARTY.  H 

"This  is  very  nice,"  she  said  to  herself,  "hut 
I  do  hope;  it's  not  going  to  be  improving." 

But  father  went  on,  without  hearing-  her  : 

"  Do  you  know.  Sweetheart,  that  all  the  tea 
used  to  come  from  China  in  tall  ships.  And 
when  the  captains  got  their  cargoes  of  fresh  tea 
on  board,  they  used  to  try  with  all  their  might 
who  would  get  first  to  England.  Famous  races 
there  used  to  be.  Sometimes  two  or  three  of 
the  fast-sailing  ships  would  keep  within  sight 
of  each  other  all  the  \va\',  and  the  sailors  orew 
so  anxious  for  their  ship  to  win  that  they  could 
hardly  go  to  bed  at  all." 

"  Why  did  they  want  to  get  to  England  so 
fast  ?  "  asked  Sweetheart. 

"  Because  they  could  get  more  money  for  the 
tea  in  the  market,  and  then  the  captain  and  all 
the  sailors  would  get  something  for  themselves 
for  winnincj  the  race." 

"  That  was  nice,"  said  Sweetheart.  "  I  wish 
I  had  been  there.  1  like  to  run  fast,  and  I  hate 
to  go  to  bed." 

Baby  Brother  here  intimated  that  he  had  not 
had  enouo-h,  bv  hammerinor  on  the  trav  in  front 
of  his  chair  with  his  little  tin  cup,  which  he  held 
upside  down.      Sweetheart  went  to  him  and  gave 


34  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

him  a  little  piece  of  biscuit,  which,  grievous  to 
relate,  he  instantly  threw  on  the  floor. 

"  It's  more  sugar  you  want,  I  know,"  she  said 
sadly,  "and  that's  just  what  you  can't  have." 

"  I'll  take  another  cup,  if  you  please,  Lady 
Jane  Howard,"  said  father. 

Lady  Jane  was  very  proud  of  being  asked  for 
another  cup  of  her  very  own  tea,  and  made  it 
out  instantly.  Then  she  was  ready  to  listen 
again. 

"  Do  you  know,"  Mr.  Father  continued,  "  that 
in  a  strange,  wild  place  called  Tartar)^,  the  peo- 
ple boil  the  tea  into  a  kind  of  porridge  with 
butter  and  flour?  How  would  you  like  that  for 
breakfast  ? " 

"  Baby  Brother  could  have  that.  He  likes 
porridge,"  answered  Lady  Jane  Howard 
promptly. 

After  this  the  tea  party  was  broken  up,  for 
nurse  came  to  the  door  to  dress  Lord  Baby 
Brother  for  his  perambulator.  And  as  Lady 
Jane  washed  up  the  tea  things  she  said  to  her- 
self : 

"It  was  very  nice,  and  not  so  very  improving, 
after  all  !  We  shall  ask  Mister  Father  again,  I 
think." 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THE    SWALLOWS    ON    THE    KITE-STRING. 

0\V  Sweetheart  meant,  to  do  just 
the  very  same  next  day.  But 
notliing  ever  does  happen  just  the 
same  \va)'  twice  over.  It  is  a  \va)' 
thini^s  have,  and  there  is  no  rea- 
soninof  with  tliem. 
But  somethino-  (^uite  as  nice  happened,  and 
the  way  of  it  was  this  : 

Lady  Jane  How^ard  has  many  friends.  "  Can 
you  fl\-  a  kite,  Sweetheart?"  said  one  of  them 
next  morning-.  Perhaps  he  was  trying  to  in- 
gratiate himself  at  the  expense  of  Sweetheart's 
other  friends.  (Young  men  have  even  been 
known  to  do  tliis  when  there  is  a  sweetheart  in 
the  question.      Sad  !  but  so  it  is.) 

"  No,"  answered  Sweetheart  promptly  ;  "  but 
I  have  seen  a  kit(>  fly." 

"  And  where  mioht  that  have  been.  Sweet- 
heart  ?  "  said   he. 

35 


36  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

"  It  was  up  among  the  great  big  hills,  once 
when  I  was  with  my  father,  and  a  brown  bird 
flew  quickly  out  of  a  wood.  It  floated  very 
fast,  but  it  made  no  noise.  So  I  asked  father 
what  bird  that  was.  He  told  me  it  was  a  kite. 
So  it  was  a  kite.      I  have  seen  a  kite  fly." 

"  But,"  said  her  friend,  "  that  may  be  one  kind 
of  kite  ;  but  did  you  ever  see  a  paper  kite  fly  ?  " 

"  Go  'way,"  said  Sweetheart  indignantly  ; 
"paper  kites  don't  fly — only  feather  kites  with 
lesfs  and  wings." 

For  Sweetheart  does  not  like  to  be  imposed 
upon. 

"  But  for  all  that,  paper  kites  do  fly,  Sweet- 
heart," urged  her  friend  patiently. 

"/know  paper  things,"  said  the  little  girl — 
and  you  must  remember  that  she  had  never  been 
to  school,  and  was  at  that  time  only  five  years 
of  age.  "  I  know  paper  things,"  said  Sweetheart 
again,  with  much  decision  ;  "  once,  a  great  many 
years  ago,  when  I  was  quite  a  little  girl,  I  had 
a   paper  dolly.      Her   name  was   Edith    Marga- 

M 

rine 

"  Marjory  !  "  interrupted  her  friend  ;  "  surely." 
Sweetheart  looked  at  the  daring  man  with  a 

sudden  flashing  eye. 


SIVALLOIVS   OX    THE   KITE-STKIXG.  37 

"  Did  you  name  that  doll)-,  or  did  I  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  )()Li  did,  of  course,"  said  the  friend 
meekl)'. 

"  I  should  think  so.  Well,  then,  the  doll)'s 
name  was  Edith  Margarine  !  " 

Sweetheart  paused  for  a  rcph',  but  there  was 
none.     The  critic  was  crushed.     So  be  it  ever  ! 

"Of  course  I  knew  the  dolly's  name,  for  I  was 
its  mother — at  least,  at  that  time,"  Sweet- 
heart added  for^ivinorly.  "  Afterward  1  <'"ave 
her  to  Essie  Maxwcdl  for  a  doll's  rocking-chair. 
But  I  was  her  mother  at  that  time — so,  of 
course,  I  knew  her  name." 

"  Of  course,"  said  her  friend. 

"  And  1  did  not  so  much  as  know  you  to 
speak  to  at  that  time — except  just  to  say,  '  Oh, 
look  at  the  funny  man  that's  coming  down  the 
road  !  '  That  was  the  way  I  first  knew  you," 
said  Sweetheart  confidentially. 

"Indeed?"  said  her  friend. 

"  Yes,  and  mother  said " 

But  as  there  is  no  assurance  company  in  the 
world  which  would  undertake  the  fearful  risks 
of  what  Sweetheart  mioht  sav  next,  and  no  one 
rich  enough  to  pay  the  premiums  if  there  were, 
her  mother  struck  in  : 


38  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

"  But  you  have  not  asked  about  the  paper 
kites,  Sweetheart.  I  am  sure  Mr.  Friend  will 
tell  you  all  about  them." 

Sweetheart  put  her  hands  on  her  knees,  as 
she  does  when  she  plays  marbles  or  sails  boats. 
Then  she  looked  fixedly  at  Mr.  Friend,  who  was 
smiling.  Finally  she  decided  that  he  was 
worthy  of  her  confidence. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "you  don't  look  as  if  you 
would  tell  improving  things.  You  can  go  on 
about  the  paper  kites." 

"  Thank  you  ! "  said  the  friend,  with  a  great 
deal  of  gratitude  and  submission. 

"  When  I  was  a  boy,"  began  he,  "  I  used  to 
make  kites  of  paper  and  fiy  them  away  up  in 
the  air." 

"  As  hicjh  as  this  house?"  asked  Sweetheart, 
^who  has  a  passion  for  details. 

"Oh,  much  higher,"  said  Mr.  Friend;  "and 
sometimes  they  pulled  so  hard  on  the  string 
that  the  kite  nearly  lifted  me  off  my  feet." 

"How  do  you  make  that  kind?"  asked 
Sweetheart,  who  thought  it  might  be  in  the 
same  way  that  her  kind  friend,  Marion  the  cook, 
made  blackberry  jam. 

"Well,"   said    Mr.  Friend,  "you   take  five  or 


TIIK    URAC;ON    II All    THK    SI'LKNUIDKST    LONG    TAIL. 


SWALLOWS  ON    THE  KITE-STRING.  4i 

six  thin   lig-ht  pieces  of  lath,  ami  you  join  them 
tQcrether." 

"  No,  I  don't,"  interjected  Sweetheart 
unexpectedly.  "  You  come  and  do  it  yourself 
to-morrow,  and  then  I'll  know  how!"  said 
Sweetheart,  who  never  could  understand 
explanations. 

Mr.  Friend  looked  across  the  room,  to  see 
if  this  proposition  had  due  sanction.  Mother 
smiled,  and  the  bargain  was  made. 

Next  day  Mr.  P>iend  came,  true  to  his  prom- 
ise, and  he  made  a  beautiful  kite,  which  he 
called  "  St.  Georcre  and  the  Draoon."  The 
dragon  had  the  splendidest  long  tail,  made  of 
crumpled  pieces  of  newspaper. 

Sweetheart  soon  knew  all  about  kite-making, 
and  got  herself  so  sticky  with  paste  that  she 
said  it  was  just  lovely.  She  had  never  been  so 
happy.  But  then  she  had  got  on  an  old 
dress  on  purpose,  because  her  mother  also 
remembered  what  kite-making  was  like  not  so 
very  many  years  ago. 

When  IT  was  finished  Sweetheart  said  : 

"  You  won't  be  able  to  wash  it  when  it  gets 
dirty,  will  you  ?  " 

"  \Vhv  do  \o\\   think  so,  Sweetheart?"  asked 


42  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

her  friend,  who  always  Hked  to  know  what 
Sweetheart  was  thinking-. 

"  Well,  because  once  I  put  Edith  Margarine 
Into  the  bath  when  she  was  dirty,  and  she  began 
to  come  all  to  pieces.  She  was  made  of  paper, 
though  not  so  thin  as  the  kite.  It  was  after 
that  that  I  gave  her  to  Essie  Maxwell  for  the 
rocking-chair,"  added  Sweetheart  thoughtfully. 

''Do  you  know  that,  far  away,  big  grown  men 
fly  kites?"  said  the  friend,  slipping  in  a  bit  of 
information  artfully,  as  he  was  putting  on  a 
beautiful  dragon's  head  with  red  paint. 

"I  suppose  they  fly  grown-up  kites  there?" 
said  Sweetheart. 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  just  right,  Sweetheart.  They 
are  very  big  kites,  and  all  the  gentlemen  of  a  town 
go  out  and  try  whose  kite  will  go  the  highest." 

"  My  father's  kite  would  go  highest  if  he 
tried  !  "  said  Sweetheart  sharply. 

Mr.  Friend  asked  why,  without  looking  up. 

Sweetheart  was  surprised  and  a  little  hurt  at 
the  question. 

"  Why,  because  he  is  my  father,  of  course," 
she  said.      Which  settled  it. 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  little  girl  to  stick  up  for  me 
like  that!"  said  Mr.  Friend,  sighing. 


'ABOVE   THE    TOPS    OK    THE    HIGHEST    TREES, 


SWALLOWS  OX    THE   KITE-STRING.  45 

"Well,"  said  Sweetheart  encouragingly,  "per- 
haps, if  you  are  very  good,  you  may  get  one 
some  day.  Of  course,  not  as  good  as  mc,"  she 
added  hastily,  to  prevent  undue  expectations  ; 
"  for  you  would  not  be  so  nice  a  father,  you  see  I" 

"  I  see,"  said  Mr.  F'riend,  again  smiling  across 
the  room  to  someone  who  smiled  back  again. 

Then  they  went  out  into  the  field  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  and  Mr.  Friend  had  a  large  ball  of 
string.  He  soon  let  the  twine  go  a  little,  and 
with  a  great  many  pulls  and  slackenings  he  got 
the  kite  up  high  in  the  air. 

Sweetheart  jumped  with  joy  as  she  saw  it 
growing  tinier  high  up  in  the  sky.  She 
danced  as  it  went  above  the  tops  of  the  highest 
trees.  And  when  it  sailed  away  into  the  blue 
till  it  was  just  a  little  diamond-shaped  dot  on 
the  heavens,  Sweetheart  almost  cried,  she  was 
so  pleased. 

"  Now%  you  can  hold  it  yourself,"  said  ]Mr. 
Friend,  oivinof  her  the  string". 

"Oh,  can  I?"  said  Sweetheart  breathlessly. 
Something  would  keep  bobbing  up  and  down 
like  a  little  mouse  at  the  bottom  of  her  throat. 
She  felt  so  happy  and  frightened  all  at  once. 
She  held   both   her  hands   hiijh   above  her  head 


46  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

to  let  the  kite  out  as  far  as  possible,  and  she 
danced  on  tiptoe  as  she  felt  it  pulling  like  a 
living  thing  away  up  near  the  clouds. 

It  was  almost  too  much  happiness  for  a  little 
girl. 

"  I  think  this  is  nicer  kite-flying  than  any  old 
Chinaman's  with  a  pigtail,"  said  Sweetheart, 
when  at  last  she  gave  up  the  string  to  Mr. 
Friend,  who  stuck  a  peg  into  the  ground  and 
put  the  string  round  it.  Then  the  kite  rose 
and  fell,  dipping  and  soaring  all  by  itself,  while 
Sweetheart  watched  it  with  a  glad  heart. 

"  I  wonder  if  our  kite  can  see  the  China 
boys'  kites  flying  on  the  other  side  of  the 
world?"  said  the  Little  Maid,  into  whose  head 
all  sorts  of  things    came    of  their   own  accord. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Friend;  "it  sees  a  good 
way,  and  many  things  that  we  do  not  see.  But 
the  other  side  of  the  world  is  rather  a  long  way 
off,  you  know." 

Then  Mr.  Friend  got  up,  and  taking  a  sheet 
of  note  paper  from  his  pocket,  he  put  the  end  of 
the  string  through  it.  Away  it  went  up  the 
curved  string,  rising  and  leaping  joyfully,  like 
a  white-winded  bird. 

"That  is  what  we  call  a  messenger,"  said  Mr. 


SliALLOll'S   OX    THE   KITE-STRING.  47 

Friend  ;   "  it   goes   up   to   the   kite    to   take    it   a 
message  from  us." 

Soon  the  messenger  reached  the  tl\incr  kite. 
It  was  just  Hke  a  point  of  light  in  th(^  blue. 

"  Now  the  messenger  has  got  there,"  said 
Sweetheart.  "  But  what  are  these  swallows 
doing?"  She  clapped  her  hands.  "They  are 
perching  on  the  string,  I  declare  !"  she  said. 

Mr.  Friend  looked  up.  The  young  maid's 
eyes  had  been  more  watchful  than  his  own.  A 
family  of  young  house-swallows  were  playing 
about  the  string,  and  every  now  and  then  one 
of  them  lighted  on  it.  Then,  as  soon  as  he  was 
comfortably  swinging  on  the  slender  line,  one  of 
his  brothers  would  fly  at  him  and  knock  him  off. 
They  played  for  all  the  world  like  boys  on  the 
street — noisily  and  merrily,  but  a  little  roughly. 
Each  of  them  screamed  and  argued  all  the  time, 
without  ever  attendinor  to  what  the  other    said. 

"  I  think,"  said  Sweetheart,  after  meditating 
for  some  time,  "that  the  swallows  stay  six 
months  here  with  us  to  make  us  glad.  And 
after  that,  they  fly  away  to  perch  on  the  kite- 
strinos  of  tlie  little  children  on  the  other  side 
of  the  world.       Tliat  is  the  way  of  it." 

And,  do  )ou  know,  perhaps  it  is. 


.^ 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


SWEETHEARTS    TEN-SHILLING    DONKEY. 


WEETHEART  often  goes  with- 
out bread  at  dinner  just  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  feeding  the  robins 
outside  on  the  garden  walk. 
"They  need  it  more  than  me," 
she  says,  her  heart  being  better  than  her 
grammar,  "  because,  you  see,  they  never  get 
any  soup  to  thez'r  dinner!" 

48 


SWEETHEART'S    TEN-SHILLING  DONKEY.         49 

But  too  iiuicli  attention  is  not  o;ood  for  child 
or  bird,  and  our  warden  robins  had  become  very 
spoiled  urchins  indeed.  There  was  one  with 
breast  plump  as  a  partridge  and  ruddy  as  a 
winter  apple,  who  stood  every  day  and  defied 
all  his  own  kind  to  come  near  a  large  loaf  on 
which  there  was  enough  and  to  spare  for  fifty 
snippets  such  as  he.  He  erected  his  head.  He 
drooped  his  wings,  trailing  them  on  the  ground 
like  a  game-cock.  He  strutted  and  swelled 
himself  like  a  perfect  Bobadil.  He  would  even 
fly  like  a  dart  at  a  blackbird  or  a  thrush,  so 
exceedingly  self-confident  and  pugnacious  did 
he  become. 

But  this  morning  Sweetheart  forgave  him. 

"  Perhaps  he  had  not  any  mother  to  teach 
him  better,"  she  said,  "  or  never  was  allowed  to 
go  walks  with  his  father." 

Sweetheart  ap[)reciates  the  benefits  of  a 
sound  commercial  education.  In  fact,  just  at 
present  she  is  sa\  ing  up  for  a  donkey,  and  she 
is  not  backward  in  announcing  the  fact,  either. 

"  Not  a  oineerbread  one,  you  know,  like  what 
you  buy  at  the  fair,  with  currants  in  the  places 
where  the  eyes  should  be.  But  a  real  live 
donkey,  that  stops  in  a  stable  and  makes  a  noise 


50  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

inside  him — like  he  had  whooping-cough  and  it 
wouldn't  come  up  right.     You  know  the  kind  !" 

I  did  know  the  kind. 

"  And  when  I  get  enough  money,"  Sweet- 
heart went  on,  "  then  we  shall  put  the  real 
donkey  in  a  stable,  and  Hugo  and  I  shall  attend 
to  it,  and  dress  it  with  ribbons — and  sometimes 
ride  on  it,  when  it  is  not  too  tired  !" 

The  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to 
Animals  will  have  nothing  to  do  for  its  subscrip- 
tions round  about  Sweetheart's  house. 

But  the  thrifty  resolve  has  also  its  drawbacks. 

When  our  small  maid  goes  a-walking,  she  in- 
forms every  person  worthy  of  confidence  that  she  is 
going  to  get  such  a  donkey,  and  that  immediately. 

"  And  I  have  nearly  plenty  to  buy  a  first-rate 
one  now — I  have  seven  silver  shillings  and  four- 
pence — all  my  own,  in  the  bank  !"  she  said 
yesterday. 

"  And  I  have  dot  two  pennies  and  a  little  wee 
one!"  cried  Hugo,  who  was  going  to  turn  the 
concern  into  a  joint-stock  company  of  which  he 
should  be  general  manager — this  being  about 
the  amount  of  stock  usually  requisite  for  the 
purpose.  "  Sweetheart  shall  lead  the  donkey  by 
the  bridle  and  I  shall  ride  on  it  !"  he  explained. 


SWEETHEART'S   TEN-SHILLING  DONKEY.         5' 

"Just  like  a  boy!"  answered  Sweetheart 
sharply  ;  "boys  is  made  of  slugs  and  snails " 

"  But  w')'  was  girls  made  at  all  ?"  interrupted 
Hugo. 

Having  no  answer  ready,  Sweetheart  recurred 
to  the  general  subject.  Hugo  had  no  right  to 
be  a  rude  boy.  But  then  he  was  very  young — 
not  nearly  grown  up — and  could  not  be  expected 
to  know  any  better. 

"/am  going  to  buy  the  donkey,  but  some- 
times I  shall  allow  you  to  feed  it,  Hugo  !  "  said 
Sweetheart  firmly. 

"  But  it's  7)2y  donkey,"  answered  Hugo,  stick- 
ing to  his  point;  "'cause  w'y,  I've  dot  two  bid 
pennies  and  a  little  wee  one." 

"What's  two  pennies?"  said  Sweetheart 
scornfully,  "  they're  only  copper,  and  coppers  is 
what  you  give  to  beggar-men — and  put  in  the 
church-plate  on  Sundays  !  " 

Sweetheart  has  been  learning  too  many  of  the 
evil  ways  of  the  neighbourhood.  This  putting 
of  coppers  in  the  offertory  is  a  habit  which, 
when  once  acquired,  is  not  easily  got  rid  of. 
We   must  see    to   this. 

But  there  were  certain  curious  consequences 
which  sprang  directly  from  Sweetheart's  public 


52  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

declaration  that  she  was  going  to  buy  a 
donkey. 

I  was  informed  one  roaring  black  night  that 
there  was  a  boy  at  the  door,  wishful  to  see  me. 

"Well,  my  lad,"  I  remarked,  standing  a  little 
back,  for  the  wind  made  the  rain-drops  splash 
into  the  hall,  "what  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

"  If  ye  please,  sir,  I  heard  that  ye  was  gaun 
to  keep  twa  horses  and  a  carriage.  I'm  used  wi' 
pownies;  so  I  thought  I  wad  like  to  tak'  the  place." 

"  But,  my  lad,  I  never  thought  of  keeping 
even  a  pony.  Who  told  you  such  a  thing?"  I 
replied. 

The  boy's  countenance  fell.  There  was  a 
moment  of  hesitancy.  At  last,  unwillingly,  the 
answer  came  : 

"  It  was  Geordie  Parton  that  said  that  his 
brither  Tam  had  heard  a  woman  tell  anither 
woman  on  the  street  that  your  wee  lassie  said 
it  last  Tuesday  fortnight  !  " 

It  is  a  lonof  lane  that  has  no  turnina-  •  a  lonor 
Scottish  explanation  which  is  not  finished  at 
last.  But  the  thing  itself  was  clear.  From 
Sweetheart's  ten-shilling  donkey  and  Hugo's 
joint-stock  investment  of  twopence  halfpenny,  a 
coach  and  horses  of  my  own  had  grown  within 


SWEETHEART'S    TEN-SHILLING  DONKEY.         53 

the  brief  space  of  t(Mi  days.  It  was  an  instruct- 
ive local  object-lesson,  wiih  the  old  fable  of  the 
three  black  crows  for  a  text. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man  in  Fife, 
not  famous  for  the  excellence  of  his  stud  of 
horses.  He  was  on  his  way  to  the  market 
town  one  morning-  to  supply  the  place  of  a 
recent  loss.  As  he  went  his  way  he  passed  the 
window  at  which  his  wife  was  washing  dishes. 

"  Hey,  John,  bide  a  wee!"  cried  the  acting 
heatl  of  the  house. 

John  bided. 

"  Whaur  are  ye  gaun,  guidman  ?"  asked  his 
wife. 

"  I'm  gaun  to  Cupar  to  buy  a  horse,"  said 
her  husband. 

"  Hoo  muckle  siller  hae  ye  wi'  ye  ?" 

"A  pound,"  quoth  John  promptly,  with  the 
consciousness  of  ample  enough  means  to  buy 
a  Derby  winner. 

"Hoot,  man,"  cried  his  wife,  "  tak'  ither  five 
shillin's  an'  get  a  guid  yin — aii  no  hae  thou 
aye  ciee-dcein  !  " 

Sweetheart's  ten-shilling  donkey  is  to  be  of 
"ither  five-shilling"  kind.  It  is  not  to  be  "  (7ye 
dee-dee  in  !  " 


CHAPTER    IX. 


THE    UNSTABLE    EQUILIBRIUM    OF    GRIM    RUTHER- 

LAND. 

T  must  have  been  for  some  hidden 
reason  of  contraries  that  our  large 
collie  Grim  was  so  named.  Peace 
and  goodwill  were  written  broadly 
upon  his  countenance.  Welcome 
shone  benevolently  from  his  eye.  There  was 
no  possible  guile  in  him.  He  was  too  fat  for 
guile.  Also  he  had  been  brought  up  along  with 
Sweetheart,  and  had  become  inured,  like  the 
renowned  Brer  Fox  in  the  fascinating  tale  of 
Uncle  Remus,  to  being  made  "  de  ridin'  hoss  of 

54 


GRIM  RUTHERLAiXD.  55 

de  rabbit  family."  Sweetheart  rode  upon  him 
for  years,  tlien  Hugo  had  his  turn.  And  now, 
all  uureproved  and  fearless.  Baby  Brother 
twists  tiny  hands  savigerously  into  Grim 
Rutherland's    shaggy    fell. 

For  Grim  was  placid  by  nature,  and  had 
become,  besides,  a  dog  of  some  philosophy, 
When  he  had  had  enough  of  his  rider,  he 
simply  sat  down.  Then  the  laws  of  gravitation 
(which,  as  every  sixth  standard  boy  knows, 
were  invented  by  Sir  Isaac  Newton),  took  their 
course,  and — but  it  is  obvious  what  happened. 
For  family  reasons  connected  with  washing- 
day,  this  performance  has  been  systematically 
discouraged  on  muddy  afternoons.  Such  a 
tyrant  does  prejudice  become  in  the  domestic 
relations. 

Not  that  Grim  had  any  particular  prejudices. 
He  was  quite  ready  to  sit  down  anywhere. 
Indeed,  if  anything,  he  rather  preferred  a  puddle. 
For  he  is  a  utilitarian,  and  submitted  to  carry 
weight  only  so  long  as  it  was  clearly  for  his 
good.  He  sat  down,  therefore,  so  soon  as  he 
was  tired.  Usually  he  did  this  suddenly  and 
without  warnino — even  maliciouslv,  like  an 
Anarchist    explosion.     Then    a    new   packet   of 


5^  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

Hudson's  Extract  of  Soap  had  to  be  ordered. 
The  traveller  for  that  article  has  noticed  a 
marked  increase  in  the  orders  from  our  village. 
But  he  did  not  know  the  cause.  Sweetheart 
knew.  It  was  all  owing  to  the  unstable  equi- 
librium of  Grim  Rutherland.  It  is  a  strange 
thing  that  there  is  no  Society  for  the  Preven- 
tion of  Cruelty  by  Animals.  If  there  were,  we 
hold  to  it  that  both  Sweetheart  and  Hugo  have 
good  ground  for  applying  for  a  warrant  against 
Grim,  on  account  of  wilful  and  mischievous 
damage  done  to  the  most  sacred  interests  of 
dignity   and   cleanliness. 

However,  to  square  the  reckoning  as  it  were, 
many  a  tramp  might  also  lodge  informations, 
and  then  Grim's  master  mio^ht  find  it  hard 
to  find  adequate  defences.  For  the  mild- 
mannered  collie  was  ever  a  mighty  respecter 
of  persons.  He  was,  indeed,  glad  to  see  every 
new  visitor.  But  to  none  did  he  tender  a 
warmer  welcome  than  to  a  good  average, 
slouching,  hang-dog,  foot-shuffling  tramp. 
Grim  might  be  couched  in  the  shape  of  a  very 
thick  capital  Q  under  the  table  in  the  kitchen. 
He  might  be  sound  asleep  in  his  kennel  in  the 
yard.      He    might    even     be     dreaming    of    the 


GRIM  RUrUERLAXD.  57 

Elysian  fields  to  which  all  good  dogs  go  (where 
there  are  plenty  of  rabbits  and  no  rabbit-holes 
more  than  three  feet  deep).  But  so  surely  as 
the  gate  clicked  and  a  tramp  slouched  past  the 
kitchen  window,  there  was  Grim  \\\)  and  raging 
like  a  fur\-.  It  is  related  in  the  rhyme  of 
Thackeray  how 

"  The  iminortal  Sniitli  O'Brine 
Was  raging  like  a  line " 

but  Grim  raged  like  an  entire  menagerie — indeed, 
like  a  zoological  garden  of  some  pretensions. 

If  he  happened  to  be  shut  up  alone  in  the 
house,  the  visitor  hastil}'  retired  and  tried  the 
front-door  bell.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  Grim 
happened  to  be  in  the  yard,  and  loose,  he  added 
to  his  already  extensive  collection  of  tramps' 
trouser-lesf«.  \Ve  all  collect  somethino-  in  our 
house.  One  j)ostage  stamps,  another  damaged 
toys,  a  third  stones  of  price.  Or  yet  another 
personal  "  wanity "  may  be  a  library  of  rare 
volumes  of  unattainable  editions,  concerning  the 
price  of  which  the  collector  certainh'  jjrevaii- 
cates  when  put  to  the  question.  \\'i\es  will 
certainlv  have  a  cU;al  to  answer  for  some  ilaw 
But  assuredly  ill  is  is  too  large  a  question.  To 
return.      Grim    Rutherland  was  a  phiin  dog,  and 


58  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

dwelt  in  kennels.  He  did  not  attempt  to  collect 
anything-  really  esoteric,  but  simply  continued  to 
amass  his  precious  frayed  fragments  of  tramps' 
trouser-legs. 

A  horrid  thought  occurred  to  Sweetheart  the 
other  day  which  surprised  and  pained  me. 

"Are  there  never  any  bits  of  legs  along  with 
them  ? "  she  said. 

For,  indeed,  to  the  disinterested  observer,  the 
process  of  collection  seems  a  rough  one.  The 
enemy  was  usually  retiring-  in  some  disorder 
down  the  road.  Grim  was  following  and  shak- 
ing his  head  from  side  to  side,  steadily  harassing 
the  rear.  Suddenly  there  would  come  an  explo- 
sive rent,  the  tramp  increased  his  speed — and 
Grim  had  made  an  addition  to  his  collection. 

But  Sweetheart  was  not  easy  in  her  mind 
about  the  question  of  the  possibly  enclosed  leg. 
For  Grim  is  undoubtedly  carnivorous.  No  per- 
fectly unprejudiced  person  could  watch  his  habits 
and  customs  for  a  single  day  without  coming  to 
that  conclusion. 

"  Horrid  dog  !  "  says  Sweetheart ;  "  I  hope  it 
is  not  true.  I  never  could  love  you  again  if  you 
did.  And  you  getting  as  much  nice  clean  dog- 
biscuit  as  ever  you  can  eat  ! 


GKIM  Ji  U  TllERLAND. 


59 


Sweetheart  do(;s  not  approve  of  the  miscel- 
laneous feedinLr  of  doers — at  least  she  draws  the 
line  at  feeding  them  on  tramps. 

*'  And  you  are  actually  getting  fat.  too,  Grim  !  " 
she  continued  severely. 

Grim   licked   his  lips  and  wagged  a  tail   like  a 


^  "the  tramp  increaskd  his  speed." 

branch  of  spruce.  He  thought  he  was  going  to 
get  something  good  to  eat.  Hut  Sweetheart 
went  on    to  give   him   a   lecture   instead. 

"  Are  you  aware  that  the  butcher's  boy  com- 
plained of  you  to-day,  Grim  Rutherland,  \()u 
wicked.  nauo"ht\'  doe?" 


6o  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

I  do  not  think  I  mentioned  the  fact  before,  but 
it  may  be  as  well  to  say  that  the  family  name 
was  Rutherland.  Consequently  our  dog's  name 
is  Grim  Rutherland.  By  that  he  is  known  all 
over  the  village,  and  even  as  much  as  a  mile  into 
the  next  parish. 

But  undoubtedly  sometimes  Grim  Rutherland 
presumed  upon  his  good  name,  and  the  head  of 
the  house  had  to  suffer — as  is  usual  in  such  cases. 

It  was,  for  instance,  wholly  certain  that  of  late 
Grim  had  been  getting  too  fat.  He  was,  indeed, 
regularly  and  sparsely  fed,  as  Sweetheart  had 
said,  upon  dog-biscuit.  But,  all  the  same,  like 
a  certain  famous  person,  he  waxed  fat  and 
attached  himself  to  many  tramps. 

And  to  this  also  there  was  a  reason  annexed. 

One  day,  in  the  broadest  sunshine  of  the  fore- 
noon, the  horrid  fact  was  made  abundantly  mani- 
fest. Grim  Rutherland  was  a  freebooter,  a 
cataran,  a  wild  bandit.  There  he  sat  crouched 
like  a  wolf,  and  crunched  the  thigh-bone  of  an 
ox  upon  the  public  highway. 

So  that  the  passers-by  justly  mocked  and  said, 
"  What  an  example  !  " 

Thus  disgrace  is  brought  upon  innocent 
households. 


GRIM  RUTHERLAXD.  Ol 

Sad  to  relate,  Grim  Rulherlaiul  proved  him- 
self a  bad  character  of  lono-  standiiiL!'  and  con- 
siimmate  hypocris)' — a  lamentable  fact  which  we 
found  out  as  soon  as  ever  we  had  started  out 
to  make  inquiries.  He  had  been  obtaining 
credit  on  the  famih'  oood  name — tradincr  on  his 
name  and  address,  indeed,  like  many  other 
amiable  gentlemen.  After  he  had  partaken  of 
a  good  meal  at  home,  he  regularly  started  out  to 
make  the  grand  tour  of  the  butchers'  shops. 
And  we  found  that  the  rascal's  effrontery  had 
grown  to  such  a  pitch  that  he  would  march 
straight  into  a  shop  without  even  the  poor 
preface  of  an  apology.  Nor  did  he  return  alone. 
He  brought  out  a  bone  with  him,  in  preciseh'  the 
same  fashion  as  that  in  which  he  brings  a  stick 
out  of  the  water.  He  did  not  even  hurry  him- 
self like  an  ordinar)-  malefactor.  For  his  name 
was  Grim  Rutherland,  and  he  had  never  yet 
known  what  it  was  to  have  his  entrances  retarded 
or  his  exits  accelerated  by  such  a  projectile  as  a 
pound  weight — as  would  assuredly  have  hap- 
pened in  the  case  of  any  ordinary  dog  less 
respectably  connected.  For  that  is  the  kind  of 
dog  Grim  Rutherland  is. 

You  would  never  have  thought  it.  to  look  at 


62 


S  WEE  THE  A  K  T   TEA  FELLERS. 


him  as  he  basked  upon  the  sunny  part  of  the 
walk  in  front  of  the  door.  A  conscious  recti- 
tude and   tolerance  pervaded   his  whole  being. 


GRIM   GETS   THE   BENEFIT   OF   GOOD   INTENTIONS. 

He  looked  as  if  he  might  almost  have  stood 
beside  the  plate  on  Sundays  himself — a  very 
proper  elder's  dog.      But  3'et  he  was  entirely  a 


GRIM   RUrHEKLAM).  63 

fraud.  Grim  could  listen  to  a  first-rate  sermon 
with  his  mind  upon  the  delights  of  rabbiting — 
which,  of  course,  could  not  be  the  case  with  a 
real  elder,  who  never  gives  his  mind  while  in 
church  to  anything  but  the  divisions  of  the  text. 
Or  so,  at  least,  we  have  been  informed. 

Yet  you  must  not  sa\'  that  Grim  Rutherland 
is  an  out-and-out  bad  dog.  Every  child  in  the 
village  would  contradict  you  if  )ou  did.  And, 
besides,  you  would  certainly  forfeit  the  friend- 
ship and  countenance  of  Sweetheart — which,  in 
a  thinly  populated  district,  is  a  serious  matter. 
For  Sweetheart's  friends  have  many  privileges, 

"  Grim  is  not  a  bad  dog,"  she  would  say, 
daring  you  to  contradiction. 

You  try  hard  (but  fail  in  your  attempt)  to 
appear  credulous.  Sweetheart  looks  at  )-ou 
with  an  air  which  says  that  you  must  be  an  in- 
dividual of  very  indifferent  morals  indeed,  to 
harbour  such  bad  thoughts  aqainst  a  blameless 
"  dumb  animal." 

"  But  he  lets  you  drop  in  the  mud.  Sweet- 
heart !"  you  urge  pitifully  on  your  own  behalf. 

"  I  know,"  she  says,  a  little  sadly  ;  "  but  then, 
you  know,  his  head  means  all  right.  After  all, 
it  is  only  one  end  of  him  that  sits  down." 


64  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

And  SO  Grim  Rutherland  eets  the  benefit  of 
tlie  good  intentions  of  his  nobler  part,  instead  of 
being  judged  by  the  actual  transgressions  of  his 
worse. 

Even  so  may  it  be  with  all  of  us. 


\ 


ON    THE    WAY    TO    CONWAY. 


CHAPTER    X. 


OF    HUZZ    AND    BUZZ,    ALSO    OF    FUZZ    AND    MUZZ. 


HERE  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky, 
and  the  painters  were  busy  giving 
*"  )  to  Conway  station  its  spring  clean- 
ing. "  Walk  close  behind,  Sweet- 
heart— and  keep  the  red  cloak 
clean" — I  was  on  the  point  of  adding,  "Re- 
member, mother  will  not  be  pleased  if  you  get 
paint  on  it."  But  I  recollected  that  this  was  not 
quite  the  time  to  recall  "  mother"  to  a  little  four- 
year-old.  A  small  heart  is  always  a  little  sore 
till  the  wash  of  leaves,  the  steady  push  of  the 
wind  which  drives  the  fair  curls  back  hke  spray 
over  the  brim  of  the  red  cap,  and  the  rush  of 
wheels  bring  the  anodyne  of  distance  to  its 
achine.      It   is  a  standing  sorrow  with   the  maid 

65 


66  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

that  there  is  only  room  on  the  tricycle  for  one 
passenger.  It  is  also  true,  on  the  one  hand, 
that  if  there  were  room  for  another,  even  of 
Sweetheart's  fighting  weight,  the  unfortunate 
engineer  would  come  to  an  early  grave  at  the 
first  lonof  hill. 

Outside  the  station  we  sprang  to  the  saddle, 
and  through  the  narrow  Conway  streets  we 
wheeled  ;  sharp-featured,  dark-haired  Welsh- 
women looking  out  in  sympathy  upon  us,  shrilly 
commending  my  Sweetheart's  curls,  and  depre- 
cating the  hazardous  quest  on  which  she  was 
bent.  It  was  still  and  hot  in  the  deep  valley, 
and  before  we  were  clear  of  the  town  altogether 
there  were  provisions  to  buy,  for  we  were  going 
into  an  unknown  land.  We  entered  the  shop, 
leaving  the  steed  surrounded  by  a  reverent 
crowd  of  shy  Welsh  children.  With  whom — oh, 
happy  and  unusual  experience — it  was  perfectly 
safe.  We  laid  in  our  stores  with  appropriate 
gravity  and  deliberation.  Chocolate  was  the 
staple  of  life — "creams"  for  the  front  and 
"  plain  "  for  the  rear  rider.  Then  a  reprint  of 
some  good  old  fairy  tales  in  cheap  wrapper  for 
thereadino-  of  both.  It  is  indeed  most  fortunate 
when  two  sweethearts  travelling  upon  one  horse 


\  \ 


"through    the    NAKKdW    CONWAY    STREETS. 


OF  HUZZ  AXD   BUZZ.  69 

have  the  same  Hterary  tastes.  A  difference  in 
taste  as  to  what  constitutes  a  jest  is  more  fatal 
to  domestic  peace  than  a  difference  in  rehgion. 
But  as  neither  of  us  have  ever  yet  t^ot  beyond 
"  Jack  the  Giant-Killer,"  and  as  we  both  loathe 
the  Folk-Lore  Society  (or  at  least  all  its  commen- 
taries), everything  went  merrily  as  a  marriage- 
bell — which  for  Sweetheart  Travellers  is  cer- 
tainly an  auspicious  comparison. 

It  is  liill)',  lumpy  country  out  from  Conway. 
After  we  got  down  into  the  valley  it  was  a  long 
and  fairly  steady  pull  for  a  good  many  miles. 
The  road  straggled  off  out  of  the  straight  path 
in  quite  an  unattached  manner,  looking  like  any- 
thing in  the  world  but  what  it  was — the  main- 
travelled  road  to  the  important  towns  and 
villages  of  the  Conw^ay  Valley.  We  asked  a 
man  which  of  two  roads  was  the  rioht  one  for 
Llanrwst.  He  told  us.  We  had  not  gone  five 
hundred  yards  down  this  road  before  we  met 
another  man,  who  manifested  an  interest  in  us, 
and  immediately  informed  us  that  the  one  we 
had  just  left  was  the  only  correct  road  to 
Llanrwst.  The  day  was  hot,  and  so  were  we. 
We  hastened  back,  mv  Sweetheart  and  I,  to 
express  ourselves  vigorously  to  the  first  misin- 


70  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

formant,  but  he  had  seen  us  coming-  and  escaped 
over  into  a  field.  We  shouted  anathemas,  but 
he  only  shook  his  head,  and  said  that  he  "  had 
no  Enklish."  Yet,  ten  minutes  ago,  he  had 
enough  to  tell  a  great  lie  ! 

We  were  now  on  the  crest  of  the  ridge.  We 
dismounted,  walked  a  little,  and  lo  !  we  were 
looking  into  a  gulf  of  air  through  which  we  were 
about  to  project  ourselves  down  to  the  depths 
of  a  great  blue  valley.  It  was  very  still,  and 
the  blue  sky  had  come  ever  so  much  nearer  to 
the  earth.  The  horizon  seemed  to  have  pulled 
a  navy-blue  cap  about  its  ears.  As  we  paused, 
Sweetheart  as  usual  tempered  the  observation 
of  nature  with  chocolate.  She  was  always  great 
at  observing  colour. 

"What  a  lot  of  blue  things  there  are  here, 
father — all  different  !  " 

That  may  be  true  enough,  but  it  does  not 
seem  the  observation  of  a  child,  says  a  wiseacre. 
Now  that  is  just  the  thing  that  is  most  delight- 
ful about  the  Sweetheart.  She  never  says  what 
she  is  expected  to  say^and,  indeed,  very  seldom 
what  she  ought  to  say.  It  is  true  that  there 
were  a  lot  of  blue  thing-s  there— all  different. 
There   was  the   sky,  for  instance,  not  far  from 


OF  IIUZA  AXD   BUZZ. 


?• 


iiltraniarinc,  so  dark  .ind  intinitc  it  was,  )ct 
appai'ciuK  1)\  lU)  iiK-ans  far  olf.  'I  here  was  llie 
nearer  Ii'^Iu-IjIik^  haze  in  the  shallow  hollows  of 
the  vall('\-,  and  la'^t  of  all  there  were  the  azure 
pools  where  one  looked   away    into   the  "blind 


HAD    NO    ENKI.ISH. 


hopes  and  lirks  o'  the  hills"  nn  the  skirts  of  the 
Snowdonian  highlands. 

When  Sweetheart  was  not  yet  three  years  old. 
it  is  recorded  in  the  book  of  the  chronicles  of 
Rutherland  that  a  conversation  was  conducted 
somewhat  in  this  fashion. 

There  was  a  deep  wooded  valley  underneath 
her  private  drawing-room  (commonK-  called 
nursery)  window.  Sweetheart  was  standing, 
finger   on   lip,  gazing  into  the  haze  which    filled 


72  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

it — unexpectedly  quiet,  and  therefore  probably 
plotting-  further  mischiefs.  Her  mother  looked 
up  to  make  investigations.  It  is  a  terrible 
thinor  to  have  a  bad  character.  The  innocent 
are  so  often  misjudged.  No  ;  the  crockery  was 
safe.  There  was  no  actual  transgression  con- 
nected with  jam.  What,  then,  could  be  the 
matter  ? 

The  little  one's  eyes  were  looking  wistfully 
across  the  valle}'.  There  dwelt  a  deep  puzzle- 
ment on  the  puckered  forehead.  At  last  it 
came. 

"  Mother,  is  leaves  gween  ?" 

"Why,  yes,  Sweetheart;  of  course  leaves  are 
green." 

"  But  those  leaves  over  there  is  blue!''' 

And  thev  were— the  blue  of  ultramarine  ash — 
only  our  older  eyes  had  not  seen  so  clearly. 
We  often  said  at  this  time  that  if  Sweetheart 
treated  all  her  other  friends  as  brusquely  as  she 
treated  her  two  principal  lovers,  conversations 
would  have  a  way  of  dying  a  natural  death. 

But  to  return  to  our  high-poised  hamlet  over- 
looking the  Conway  Valley,  a  kind  of  natural 
lookout  tower  both  seaward  and  hillward. 

"  There  is  a  policeman,"  said  Sweetheart. 


OF  HUZZ  AND   BUZZ. 


73 


She  was  always  friendly  with  these  officers  of 
the  law.  Perhaps  Sweetheart  is  like  the  cau- 
tious old  Scotswoman  who,  when  her  minister 
reproved  her  for  pra)ing-  for  the  devil,  said  : 

"  It's   as  easy  to  be  cee\il  as  unceevil  to  the 


^^- 


THE   LAW    WOULD    HAVE   A   BAD   CHANCE. 


chiel,  an'  wha   kens   hoo   sune  ye   may    need    a 
frien'  ?  " 

So  my  Sweetheart  smiled  upon  the  best-look- 
ing and  most  kindly  of  portly  W'elsh  policemen. 
It  occurred  to  us  that  on  the  hill  above  Llanrwst, 
this  particular  representative  of  the  law  would 
have  a  bad  chance  in  pursuit  of  an  evil-doer — 
specially  if  his  steed,  like  ours,  hailed  from 
"  Beeston,  Notts."     But  there  was  not  an  ounce 


74  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

of  evil  intent  among  the  three  of  us.  It  was  all 
downhill,  we  heard  with  joy — from  now  all  the 
way  to  Bettws.  So  we  were  at  peace  with  all 
men,    • 

So  we  skimmed  downward,  and  ran  races  with 
the  pheasants  which  scurried  along-  the  road  in 
front  of  us,  apparently  forgetting  till  we  were 
quite  upon  them  that  they  possessed  such  things 
as  wings  at  all.  Then,  whirr!  they  were  over 
the  dyke  and  away  to  the  woods,  flying  swift 
and  low. 

A  big  brown  bee,  homeward  bound,  blundered 
waveringly  alongside  of  us  for  some  distance, 
either  heavy  laden  with  pollen  or  a  little  tipsy 
with  heather  honey.  If  he  does  not  mind  where 
he  is  going  he  "won't  get  home  till  morning." 

I  repeated  this  to  Sweetheart,  and  the  tender 
little  heart  was  instantly  so  much  concerned  that 
I  was  ashamed  of  the  reference — to  her  happily 
meaningless.  She  seized  the  situation,  however, 
as  was  her  habit,  for  this  was  a  part  which 
exactly  suited  her.  It  was  wonderful  how  long 
we  could  see  the  bee's  orreat  bulk,  like  the  end 
of  a  black  man's  thumb  which  had  somehow 
flown  off  by  itself.  At  last  he  went  from  sight, 
but  Sweetheart  followed  him  with  her  eyes. 


OF  HUZZ  AND  BUZZ.  75 

"His  name  is  Buzz,  father;  did    you   know?" 

"  No,  Sweetheart  ;  how  should  1  know  ?" 

"  Well,  he  told  me — yes,  indeed  !     His  name 

is  Buzz,  and  he  lives  in  a  hole  in  a  hollow  tree." 

"  No,  dear;   in  a  meadow,  surely  !" 

"Well,    I    don't    know — but"    (severely)"//^ 

said  '  in  a  hollow  tree.'     And  his  wife's   name  is 

Huzz.      And    he   has  two   little  baby  bees,  and 

their  names  are  Fuzz  and  Muzz — at  least  he  said 

so — and   he   has  to  work  so  hard  to  buy  bread 

and  butter  for  them.      He  works  a  typewriter  at 

home,  and  old   Mother   Huzz   she   makes  their 

clothes  and  puts  Fuzz  and   Muzz   to   bed.      And 

every  night  when  it  is  time  to  go  to  sleep.  Fuzz 

puts    his    head     in    his    mother's   lap  and   says, 

'  Bless  father  and  mother,  and  make  Fuzz  a  good 

little  bumble-bee,  for " 

"That  will  do,  Sweetheart!"  I  interjected 
hastily,  for  there  was  not  the  least  ouarantee  as 
to  what  miL>ht  come  ne.xt.  "It  is  time  we  were 
going  on." 

Now  in  our  fateful  journej'ings  we  came  to  the 
lono-  villao'e  of  Llanrwst.  We  flashed  throuoh 
it  at  a  great  speed,  and  the  children  came  run- 
ning to  see  us  pass.  Outside  the  town  we 
paused  a  moment  to  get   a  drink  out  of  Sweet- 


76 


S  WEE  THE  A  R  7 '    TRA  VELLERS. 


heart's  favourite  drinking-cup,  being  the  joined 
pahns  of  her  faithful  slave's  hands.  It  is  won- 
derful how  daintily  water  can  be  drunk.     You 


'A   BUNCH   OF   FLOWERS.' 


could  not  believe  what  a  charming  sight  it  is  un- 
less you  had  seen  my  Sweetheart  sip  that  water 
from  the  Welsh  hills. 


OF  HCZZ  AXD   BUZZ. 


77 


A  little  girl  stepped  up  and  gave  the  Red 
RidiiiQ-Hood  a  bunch  of  flowers.  Now  it  is  the 
only  unpleasant  thing  about  these  little  Cymri, 
that  they  do  continually  pester  the  traveller  with 
bunches  of  flowers — by  no  means  expectant  of 
nothing  in  return.  But  the  wav  in  which  my 
Sweetheart  said,  "  Thank  you,  little  girl,  for 
your  pretty  flowers  !  "  was  such  a  natural  lesson 
in  gratitude  that  I  must  perforce  spoil  the  effect 
of  it  by  adding  a  penny.  For  so  the  manner  of 
blundering  man  is. 

We  went  on  in  the  quiet  evening  light  until 
we  reached  the  inn  at  Bettws — now,  alas  !  a 
stately  hotel.  Here  there  was  dinner,  where  we 
had  the  best  of  company — that  is,  we  were  left 
entirely  to  ourselves.  But  at  another  table  four 
young  men  told  one  another  in  loud  tones  what 
great  fellows  they  were.  Mercifully  they  had 
only  eyes  for  themselves,  and  did  not  heed,  save 
to  despise,  the  two  wayworn  and  disreputable 
wanderers. 

"/like  two  dinners  in  one  day,"  remarked  a 
mercenary  maid,  presently. 

And  the  working  partner  agreed  that  (at  least 
while  cycling  in  Wales)  three  would  be  no  over- 
plus. 


78  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

The  sun  was  dropping  down-hill  rapidly  as 
we  took  the  broad,  beautifully  surfaced  road 
toward  Capel  Curig.  There  was  a  white  haze 
in  the  valley,  and  the  workmen  were  coming 
home.  It  was  a  cheerful  time.  The  crisp  sug- 
gestion of  fried  bacon  and  eggs  carried  far,  and 
the  children  were  callinof  one  to  the  other  in 
shrill  Cymraeg.  As  we  approached  the 
scattered  lakes  of  Capel  Curig,  with  inns 
peppered  casually  among  them,  we  hesitated  a 
little  whether  we  should  dismount  and  abide 
here,  or  whether  we  should  try  the  bolder 
adventure  of   distant    Pen-y-Gwryd. 

The  lady,  of  course,  was  all  for  the  bolder 
course.  Also,  equally  of  course,  she  got  her 
way. 

In  a  little,  therefore,  we  were  parting  the  mist 
with  resolute  shoulders,  and  leaving  beneath  us, 
ghostly  in  the  gathering  whiteness,  the  lakes  of 
Llyniau  Mymbyr.  Up  and  up  we  went.  There 
was  no  sound  save  the  souorh  which  the  lioht 
wind  makes  as  it  forever  draws  to  and  fro 
through  the  valley,  airing  it  out,  as  it  were, 
before  the  lieht  sheets  of  the  nio-ht-mist  are 
spread  over  it. 

"  Are  you  warm.  Sweetheart  ?  "   I  asked. 


* 


V 


01-    III'ZZ  AXD   BUZZ.  79 

'•  Yes.  father  dear,  warm  and  cosey.  And  I 
want  a  chocolate." 

The  road  hael  recently  been  metalled,  and 
there  were  long  interludes  of  pushing.  It  was 
very  lonely  up  here.  Gradually  the  mist  drew 
down  beneath  us,  and  we  seemed  to  be  riding 
on  th(>  clouds.  Across  the  sea  of  white  the 
summits  of  a  lono-  featureless  ranore  of  hills  stood 
black  airainst  the  western  skv.  In  the  middle 
of  the  darkness  the  liorht  of  a  farmhouse 
o-leamed.  It  looked  Madsome  to  think  of 
hearth-fires  flickering  cheerily  on  the  bleak  hill- 
side. SuddcnU'  the  ghost  of  a  great  house 
started  out  of  the  night-mist  before  us.  and  an 
open  door  threw  a  gush  of  warm  welcome  across 
the  road. 

"  Jump  down,  Sweetheart.  It  is  Pen-y-Gwryd 
at  last,  and  here?  is  kind  Mrs.  Owen  !" 

We  had  arri\cd. 


COAST    LANDS. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


HILL    PASSES    AND    COAST    LANDS. 


HEN  we  arose  betimes,  we  were 
astonished  to  look  out  and  see  the 
wind  of  the  morning  off  the  west- 
ern sea,  steadily  pushing-  back  the 
mists  from  the  mountain-tops, 
exactl)^  as  a  shepherd  "  wears  "  his  flocks  on  the 
hill  when  his  dogs  are  working  well  together. 

"  I  thought  you  told  me,  father,"  said  the 
Sweetheart,  ''that   it   always    rains  here?" 

She  was  speaking  to  me  through  the  closed 
window  so  eagerl)'  that  the  little  nose,  not 
naturally  "  tip-tilted,"  flattened  itself  at  the  point 
in  a  way  calculated  to  give  pain   to  any   lover 

80 


HILL   PASSES  AND    COAST  LANDS.  8i 

less  devoted  tlian  1.  But  for  all  that  she  was  a 
singularly  attractive  Juliet. 

She  was  referring  to  a  hast)-  speech  of  the 
night  before,  made  when  we  were  pushing  up 
the  long,  slate-covered  glen  from  Capel  Curig. 
The  cheery  lights,  gleaming  hospitably  from  the 
long  dark  slopes  of  the  valley  opposite  to  our 
painful  way,  looked  altogether  too  aggravating 
as  they  winked  comfortably  through  the  mist. 
And  the  contrast  led  to  the  unsupported  asser- 
tion that  "there  never  was  such  a  hole  as  Pen-y- 
Gwryd  for  rain  " — a  remark,  doubtless,  which 
has  been  made  about  every  place  where  travel- 
lers happen  to  arrive  in  a  shower.  But  then 
Sweetheart  always  takes  everything  literally — 
perhaps,  like  others  of  her  sex,  desiring  to  com- 
pound for  her  own  romancing  by  requiring  an 
exact  and  inflexible  veracity  from  all  the  world 
beside. 

It  was  a  pleasant  scene  which  greeted  our 
eyes  as  we  looked  out  of  the  window.  The 
crest  of  JNIoel  Siabod,  falling  back  a  little  like  a 
wave  which  has  not  quite  succeeded  in  breaking, 
showed  silver  gleams  of  leaping  rivulets  from 
last  nieht's  rain  amid  the  flat  blue  of  its  hiorher 
slopes.      All  night  we  had  heard  the  storm  beat 


82  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

against  the  windows.  Yet  the  morning  came  so 
brightly  as  to  make  us  forget  that  there  had 
ever  been  such  a  thing  as  damp  night-mist  clos- 
ing in  about  us  and  the  rain  running  in  streams 
from  our  mackintoshes.  But  the  pools  on,  the 
roadway  and  the  sad  state  of  our  hastily  stabled 
steed  were  evidence  convincing  enough. 
Sweetheart  romped  wildly  about  the  roadway, 
while  with  rag  and  vaseline  I  groomed  the 
noble  animal,  which  stood  patient  and  still, 
proudly  arching  his  silver-plated  Stanley  head. 

So  steep  are  the  slopes  in  this  land  of  Wales, 
that  the  rains  seem  to  run  off  almost  as  soon  as 
they  fall.  Whenever  it  is  blue  above,  the  road 
beneath  is  dry.  So  that  it  was  no  long  time 
before  we  were  again  in  the  saddle,  and  had 
committed  ourselves  to  one  of  the  primary 
powers  of  nature — that  of  gravitation — in  order 
to  take  us  down  the  steep  pass  of  Nant 
Gwynant,  which  begins  almost  at  the  door  of 
the  hotel.  Most  happily,  a  complete  trust  in 
back-pedalling  and  the  strength  of  our  new 
band-brake  enabled  us  to  regard  the  abrupt 
descent  with  equanimity.  The  road  lay 
beneath  us,  in  long  winding  loops  and  circles, 
like  an    apple-peeling   which  some  Snowdonian 


I 


HILL    PASSES  AXn    COAST  LAA'DS.  «3 

g-iant    had    thrown    over   his   shoulder   for   luck. 
At  least  it  looked  thus  fair  and   inxitino;   while 
yet  we  were  high  above  it.      I^ut  when  we  came 
actual!)'     up(Mi     it,     even     Sweetheart     became 
anxious  for    the   safet)-  of   the  pneumatic    tires. 
For  it  was  not  upon  honest  road-metal  that  we 
had  to  progress,  but  over  the  most  unadulter- 
ated  and    natural   of   rocks.      The   ways   of   the 
Cymric   Celt   in   road-mendino;  amonij   his   own 
mountains    are   happily   uni(|ue.      A   road    there 
is   to    mend.      Taffy   has  the  job   committed   to 
him.      That    is    well.      He    is    just    the    man    to 
carr}-  it   through.      He   betakes  himself  up   the 
hillside  to  do    his  dut\',  for  Taffy   is  an   honest 
man    and    no    "thi(;f,"'    as    has    frequenth'  been 
libellously  asserted.      He   fully  intends  to  mend 
the  road,  and  also  he  means   to   make  a  job  of 
it   which    will    last.      So   he   loosens   rocks   from 
the    side    of    the    mountain — stones  monstrous, 
shapeless,    primeval — boulders    last    moved    by 
the  ice   rivers  of   the  Glacial   period.      These  he 
blasts  and  crowbars  down,  till,  to  be  rid  of  him, 
they  roll   of   their   own    accord    upon    the  road. 
There  he  lets  them  lie.     The   road  is   mended. 
Then   he   goes   to    chapel   a-Sundays,  and  sings 
and  prays  as  if  there  were  no  Jutlgment  Day. 


84 


SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 


Thus  very    slowly  we    staggered    downward 
amid  this  ddbris  of  creation  and  Taffy,  and  at  a 


/      ^        /  ■ 


mm 


THE   ROAD   IS   MENDED." 


walking  pace  we  finally  conquered   these  diffi- 
culties—powdered resin  giving  some  stability  to 


HILL   PASSES  A. YD    COAST  LAXDS.  «5 

our  band-brake,  wliich  had  been  whceziii"'  and 
complaining^"  all  the  \va)'  from  Pen-\'-G\vryd.  A 
small  boy  contemplated  us  with  surprisiuLj^  dis- 
favour from  the  top  of  a  wall,  on  which  he  lay 
prone  with  his  1cl;s  in  the  air  till  we  had  passed, 
whereupon  he  rose  and  sent  after  us  a  shrill 
howl  of  derision. 

"  What  dirty  boy  is  that  ?"  asked  Sweetheart, 
to  whom  the  animal  was  unknown,  but  who  had 
returned  the  look  of  disfavour  with  u.sur)'  thereto. 

"Only  a  silly  boy  who  does  not  know  any 
better,"  I  answered  sententiously,  after  the 
manner  of  parents  when  they  have  no  informa- 
tion, but  who  desire  nevertheless  to  retain  an 
appearance  of  superiority. 

"  I  know,"  said  Sir  Walter  of  the  Red  Cap 
briskly,  rending  the  futile  make-believe  without 
an  effort.  "  He  used  to  be  a  little  pupp)-  dog, 
that  barked  and  whined  after  everybod\-.  And 
one  day  he  did  it  to  a  good  fair)',  and  she 
turned  him  into  a  bad  little  boy  on  the  top  of 
a  wall,  who  makes  faces  as  people  go  by." 

"  Let  us  hope,"  I    interjected,  "that  his  father* 
will  give  him  something  else  as  a  present." 

*'  1  know  what,"  cried  the  much-experienced 
maid,  quick  as  a  Hash — "a  whipping!" 


56 


SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 


"  HE    ROSE    AND    SENT    AFTER    US    A    SIIRIU.    HOWL    OF    DERISION. 


Then,   after  a   pause,  and   very  thoughtfully, 
"  Whippings  is  good  for  boys  !  " 

Now,  at  last,  there  came  a  stretch  of  unboul- 


/////.    PASSES  AXD    COAST  LANDS.  8? 

dered  road,  and  then  before  us  la)-  Bedd  Gclert, 
with  its  (jiiaint  streets  and  sleeping  houses. 
Ten  o'clock  in  tlie  niorninL;',  and  there  was  not  a 
dog  stirring!  Everything  was  fast  asleep  in 
the  broad  litjht  of  the  morninir  sun.  But  we 
managed  to  obtain  some  milk  and  seltzer  at  an 
inn  which  looked  suitable  for  luunble  folk  like 
us,  at  whom  even  the  ragged  boy  upon  the  wall 
might  shriek  and  gibber  un reproved.  Our 
pride  had  indeed  gotten  a  fall,  for  we  had 
hitherto  received  so  much  kindness  that  we  had 
bep"un  to  think  ourselves  to  be  some  iireat  ones. 
But  here  in  Bedd  Gelert  even  the  maid  who 
served  our  seltzer  looked  at  us  with  extreme 
suspicion,  as  though  Sweetheart  and  I  were 
making  a  Gretna  Green  flight  in  the  wrong 
direction.  However,  the  womanl)-  e^e  of  my 
fellow-traveller  soon  lighted  upon  one  cause  of 
the  suspicion,  It  was  that  the  lining  of  my  cap 
had  l^een  saturated  by  the  rain  of  the  bygone 
nicrht  and  the  exertion  of  the  mornino-.  So  that 
now  sundry  streaks  of  red  d\e  were  trickling 
over  my  face,  imparting  an  appearance  even 
more  suspicious  and  felonious  than  is  natural. 
Then,  having  hastily  executed  repairs  by  the 
summary     method     of  turning    the    cap    inside 


88  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

out — an  excellent  and  reputable  makeshift — we 
proceeded  still  downward,  after  having  duly 
paid  our  hill.  The  Maid-of-the-Inn  somewhat 
relented  when  she  found  us  unexpectedly  sol- 
vent, but  even  then  she  evinced  no  emotion, 
following  us  stolidly  to  the  door  to  watch  us  off 
the  premises.  "Her  tongue  does  not  go!" 
said  Sweetheart,  speaking  by  the  book.  But 
her  perception  for  once  was  at  fault.  For  no 
sooner  was  I  at  my  straps  and  screws  than  we 
heard  our  servitor  discussing  us  in  high-pitched 
Welsh  of  a  peculiarly  piercing  and  up-three- 
stairs  variety. 

It  cost  us  not  a  pang,  therefore,  to  pass 
onward,  over  a  road  still  copiously  bouldered, 
toward  the  bridge,  infinitely  bepainted  and 
besung,  of  Aberglaslyn. 

"  It  looks  quite  shut-up  here  !"  said  my  com- 
panion, expressing  in  her  own  way  the  idea  that 
we  were  running  our  heads  into  a  bag,  as  the 
mountain  walls  of  the  pass  closed  sharply  in 
upon  us.  There  was  a  little  climb  again  after 
we  had  crossed  the  bridge  and  had  begun  to 
turn  our  faces  away  from  the  hills.  As  w^e 
breasted  the  little  rise  and  set  our  horse's  head 
downward,    a  new^  scent — warm,   wet,  yet    deli- 


HILL   PASSES  AND   COAST  LA  ADS.  89 

ciously  fresh — came  up  from  the  long,  wide  valley, 
at  the  end  of  which  we  could  see  in  a  dreamy 
haze  the  network  of  lines  which  told  of  the 
masts  of  ships  at  Port  Madoc.  The  town  itself 
clustered  along  the  edge  of  a  dark,  whale-backed 
ridge.  The  scent  was  the  scent  of  the  sea, 
whereupon  my  maid  at  once  became  clamorous 
for  cliffs  and  sandy  coves,  and  desirous  of 
"  throwing  stones  in  the  water  " — a  cheap  form 
of  recreation  much  affected  by  her,  which 
happily  immemorial  custom  does  not  stale. 

Now  again  there  was  some  level  road,  and  the 
rain  still  lay  in  pools  upon  it.  The  road-mak- 
ing was  still  of  the  Welsh  type  previously 
described,  but,  if  possible,  more  barefacedly  so. 
For  the  piles  of  unbroken  stone  with  which  the 
road  was  to  be  "  mended"  were  lying  here  and 
there  upon  it  as  we  rode  along. 

"  I  do  not  call  it  very  kind  of  them,"  was  the 
Sweetheart's  verdict,  and  it  was  mine  also.  My 
feelings  were  expressed  chiefly  by  kicking  vehe- 
mently at  the  largest  stones  as  I  pushed  the 
machine  along — a  mistake,  however,  for  one 
w'ho  wears  tennis  shoes.  For  the  exercise  was 
like  drivino-  a  cart  alono-  a  boulder-strewn  beach. 
However,  just  before  we  got  into  Tremadoc  the 


9°  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

road  unexpectedly  improved.  We  leaped  at 
once  into  the  saddle  and  were  thus  enabled  to 
make  our  entrance  into  that  famous  old  town 
with  some  distinction.  It  was  market-day,  and 
half  a  dozen  carts  stood  about  with  their  shafts 
on  the  ground.  There  were  also  many  groups 
of  chaffering  country-folk,  who  on  our  appear- 
ance crowded  about  us,  and  had  their  due  share 
of  the  excitement.  Few  of  them  appeared  to 
"  have  any  English."  But  they  all  seemed 
eager  that  we  should  visit  the  apothecary  of  the 
place,  a  certain  notable  Mr.  Evans,  domiciled  at 
the  corner  of  the  road  by  which  we  had  come 
in.  Thither  we  went,  and  found  a  man,  certainly 
remarkable  enough  in  himself — in  appearance 
the  last  of  the  bards — gray  and  reverend,  and 
speaking  English  with  a  pretty  antique  flavour, 
as  of  one  who  had  learned  it  in  his  sleep. 

But  in  no  wise  asleep  was  Mr.  Evans.  In  his 
wonderful  shop  he  had  books  of  all  sorts — vol- 
umes of  legends  into  which  Sweetheart  and  I 
peered  with  envious  eyes.  They  looked  so  rich 
in  possible  giants  and  visits  of  the  "  tilwyth 
teg  " — the  Little  People,  with  whom  it  was  evi- 
dent Mr.  Evans  was  on  good  terms,  and  whom 
he  might   even  be  keeping  concealed   in  some 


HILL   J'. I  SSL'S  AXD    COAST  LAXDS.  9 1 

unseen  corner  of  his  shop — that  wonderfully 
tangled,  quaint-smelling  magazine  of  his. 

But,  alas !  the  books  were  all  written  in 
Welsh,  which,  though  we  knew  that  it  could  be 
read  musically  enough,  looked  to  us  jjoor  unin- 
structed  ones  only  a  chance  lucky-bag  of  some 
consonantal  alphabet  without  any  vowels  in  it 
at  all. 

Mr.  Evans  was,  indeed,  for  the  time  being  our 
fairy  godmother— in  that  he  bestowed  upon  us 
everything  we  needed.  Never  was  there  such 
a  man.  He  had  cycle  oil,  into  which  he  put  a 
drop  of  paraffin  that  it  might  "seek  further  in," 
as  he  remarked.  Then  he  had  colza  oil  for  the 
lamp,  and  a  nutshell  of  camphor  to  put  in  it 
to  make  it  burn  better.  He  had  a  square  of 
American  cloth  to  make  a  sausage-roll  luggage- 
carrier  to  fasten  on  the  handle-bar.  He  cut 
strips  from  a  tanned  hide  which  lay  on  the 
counter  to  gear  the  roll  on  to  the  machine.  He 
had  sweets  of  various  sorts,  mellow  with  age. 
Above  all,  he  had  extensive  information  about 
the  uncycled  region  of  the  Lleyn  to  which  we 
were  going. 

Altogether  he  was  a  treasure  of  a  Mr.  h^vans, 
and  when  at  last  we  left  the  shop,  lie  came  out 


92  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

to  pilot  US  across  the  street,  having  charged  us 
a  perfectly  infinitesimal  amount  for  all  this 
wealth — a  sum  indeed  which  made  us  ashamed 
to  present  a  fraction  of  a  shilling  to  such  an 
ancient  and  honourable  man,  and  withal  a  bard 
of  Wales.  By  him  we  were  commended  to  a 
good  wife  at  the  inn  opposite,  who,  as  it  was 
market-day,  and  the  crowd  were  "drinking  fine," 
had  however  no  time  to  brew  us  tea.  So  that 
we  had  to  be  content  with  as  much  milk  as  we 
could  drink  and  with  the  dark-coloured  bread  of 
the  country.  But  as  we  had  good-going  appe- 
tites and  teeth  in  excellent  working  order,  we 
did  not  very  grievously  complain.  Our  fare 
cost  us  fivepence,  and  I  remarked  to  Sweet- 
heart that  we  would  get  rich,  living  in  this  way 
and  at  this  rate. 

"  Then  let  us  ride  on  for  ever  and  for  ever, 
and  never  go  back  any  more,"  said  the  Little 
Maid  promptly.  "Unless" — she  hesitated — 
"the  rain  should  come  on." 

But,  alas  !  just  then  the  rain  came  on. 


CHAPTER    XII. 


THE    PEARL    OF    POLICEMEN. 


._.  m^  ES,  it  was  indubitably  raining,  and 
^  l*^^  it  is  no  joke  when  it  rains  in  Tre- 
r  madoc,  where  nobody  is  quite  alive 
except  Mr.  Evans,  who  keeps  the 
chemist's  shop  at  the  corner — and 
every  other  kind  of  shop.  Our  landlady,  at 
least,  being  a  Jones,  one  of  a  clan  great  and 
powerful,  could  give  us  no  attention.  It  was 
surely  bad  enough  to  be  compelled  to  give 
obedience  and  service  to  people  who  were  pa\ing 

93 


94 


SWEE  THE  A  R  T   TRA  FELLERS. 


for  their  liquor,  without  troubHng  about  suspi- 
cious gangrel  bodies  who  ordered  fivepence 
worth  of  milk  and  bread,  and  then  took  more 
than  an  hour  to  eat  it.  It  was,  however,  raining, 
without  any  doubt  about  it  whatever;  and  there 
did  not  appear  to  be  any  house  of  refuge  for  our 
tricycle.  The  country-folk  about  Tremadoc  did 
their  stabling  simply  by  unharnessing  their 
beasts  and  tying  them  to  the  tail  of  their  carts 
in  the  great  open  square  of  the  village,  where 
they  stood  arching  their  backs  in  the  rain,  their 
noses  in  moist  brown  corn-bags,  with  pathetic 
patience  and  the  most  invincibly  sad-eyed 
determination. 

So  I  betook  myself  out  to  see  what  could  be 
done  with  our  steed.  I  stood  a  moment  in 
doubt,  till  a  very  friendly  policeman  (whose 
name,  strangely  enough,  was  also  Jones)  came 
up  and  invited  me  to  put  it  in  a  kind  of  market- 
hall  on  one  side  of  the  village  square,  the  door 
of  which  he  unlocked  for  the  purpose.  He  had 
a  "  notion  of  them  cycle  machines,"  he  said,  and 
(oh,  too  rare  officer  of  the  Crown)  he  liked 
those  who  rode  upon  them.  He  did  not  mind 
much  if  they  did  occasionally  ride  on  the  foot- 
path.    And  he  was  not  grieved  in  heart  because 


THE   PEAR  I.    OF  POLICEMEN.  95 

a  vagrant  cyclist  rode  tlirough  at  nightfiill  witli- 
out  a  lamp.  He  was  a  most  accommotlating 
officer,  and  he  did  not  seem  overhurdened  with 
duty.  After  I  hatl  returned  to  the  inn,  the 
Sweetheart  and  I  watched  him  throuoh  the 
window.  He  had  obtained  a  bottle  of  oil  and 
a  rag  from  some  hidden  treasure  of  his  own. 
And  there,  in  the  shelter  of  the  market  arches, 
he  was  employing  himself  in  going  carefully 
over  the  tricycle's  every  part.  Most  excellent 
No.  37  of  the  Carnarvon  County  Police,  Sweet- 
heart and  I  ha\-e  not  forootten  \ou  ! 

We  abode  in  our  inn  for  a  long  wliile,  and 
watched  the  rain  drip  over  the  white  crag  under 
which  the  village  nestles.  I  told  Sweetheart, 
out  of  a  guide-book  which  I  found  on  a  side- 
table,  that  the  village  had  been  founded  by  a 
member  of  Parliament  named  Maddox  (Sweet- 
heart evidently  thinks  him  a  Jones  masquerad- 
ino-  in  disguise)  in  the  beoinnino-  of  the  centur\', 
and  that  he  had  built  all  the  houses. 

Now  Sweetheart  has  no  opinion  of  guide- 
books, though  she  thinks  mai)s  pretty — spe- 
cialh'  those  which  she  is  allowed  to  colour  with  a 
penny  painting  outfit.  She,  therefore,  promptly 
contemned  the  information. 


g6  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

"  Did  Mr.  Jones  build  all  these  houses  ?"  she 
asked  in  a  supercilious  manner,  indicating  a 
number  of  houses  with  their  fronts  boarded  up. 

"  The  book  says  he  did,  but  his  name  was 
Maddox,"  I  answered  meekly. 

"  Then  why  did  he  not  make  people  come 
and  live  in  them?"  said  Sweetheart,  with  the 
air  of  a  Prime  Minister  moving  the  closure. 

I  could  only  weakly  appeal  to  the  book.  But 
that  authority  was  decidedly  rejected,  for  the 
simple  and  sufficient  reason  that  "it  did  not 
look  a  very  nice  kind  of  book" — which,  con- 
sidering that  some  generations  of  beer-pots  had 
been  set  down  upon  its  covers,  was  assuredly 
well  within  the  fact. 

The  friendly  officer  of  justice  having  polished 
up  our  "  Humber"  to  the  point  of  perfection,  as 
though  it  were  the  buckle  of  his  own  waistbelt 
and  he  loved  it,  came  across  the  street  to  tell  us 
that  the  sky  was  clearing,  and  that  he  did  not 
think  there  would  be  any  more  rain  to  the  west, 
whither  we  were  going. 

"  It's  the  hills,  you  see,  sir,"  he  said  lucidly. 
"  It  crawls  down  from  the  hills  and  it  crawls  up 
from  the  sea  and  so  " — with  a  sigh  he  said  it — 
"  indeed  yes — it  mostly  rains  in  Tremadoc  !  " 


THE   PEARL    OF  POLICE.UEX.  97 

As  we  went  he  wished  us  God-speed  on  our 
way,  and  told  us  that  he  was  hoping  for  a 
transfer  to  "Carnarfon,  or  some  other  lartch 
town."  He  was  a  very  pearl  of  a  policeman, 
and  if  ever  I  have  to  be  taken  up,  I  mean  to 
send  for  No.  2>7  to  do  it.  Sweetheart  and  I 
both  earnestly  hope  that  one  day  he  will  be 
made  a  chief  constable,  and  dwell  in  peace  and 
consideration  in  "  Carnarfon  or  some  other 
lartch  town,"  according  to  his  desire. 


c^ 


/^ 


■iTS*'- 


CRICCIETH. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 


THE   JONESES    OF    CRICCIETH. 


E  wheeled  away  over  a  much 
finer  road  than  we  had  yet  trav- 
elled on  in  Wales,  a  turnpike 
which  reminded  ns  of  our 
own  Scottish  highways.  We 
kept  our  eyes  fixed  on  the 
blue  peaks  of  the  Rivals,  to  the  foot  of  which 
we  desired  to  go.  As  we  went  I  told  over 
again  to  Sweetheart  what  the  retailer  of  drugs 
and  fairy  tales  in  Tremadoc  had  told  me — how 
that  this  road  on  which  we  were  travelline  had 
been  made  to  the  great  empty  harbour  of 
Porthdynlleyn   to    which   we  were   going.     But 

98 


I 


THE  JOXKSES  OF  CRICCIETII.  99 

that  in  spite  of  all  the  vast  sums  of  money 
which  had  been  spent  upon  it,  not  a  vessel  had 
ever  sailed  over  from  the  harbour  nor  a  ton  of 
goods  passed  to  Ireland  along  this  beautiful 
highway.  Sweetheart  was  interested  so  long  as 
I  told  her  of  the  kind  people  who  had  made  the 
road,  in  order  that  little  girls  could  ride  with 
their  fathers  to  a  beautiful  sandy  beach,  there 
to  gather  shells  and  sea-weed.  But  she  mani-  ^ 
fested  no  concern  whatever  in  the  economics  of 
the  question,  and  was  left  quite  untouched  by 
the  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  failure  of  the 
wide,  shipless  harbour  of  Porthdynlleyn. 

It  grew  very  hot  as  we  paced  easily  along  the 
road  toward  Criccieth.  So  we  refreshed  our- 
selves, pulling  the  tricycle  into  a  snug  cavity 
where  there  had  once  been  a  heap  of  stones  for 
road-mending.  For  this  particular  road  is  not 
kept  in  the  simple  primitive  Cymric  condition, 
of  which  we  had  tasted  enough  to  suffice  us 
earlier  in  the  day.  Sweetheart  dispersed  her- 
self generally  over  the  fields  and  gathered 
mighty  store  of  cowslips,  while  the  chief  acting- 
engineer  rested  and  watched  the  quick-flitting 
scarlet  figure  and  the  one  blue  peep  of  sea. 

As  we  lazied  here   a   train   passed  us  on   its 


lOO 


S IVEE  THE  A  R  T    TRA  VELLERS. 


way    to    Pwllheli    (which    being    pronounced    is 
"  Poothelly  ").      The  fussy  activity  of   the  tiny 


GATHERED  MIGHTY  STORE   OF  COWSLIPS.' 


engine  warned   us  that    we  must  proceed.     So 
we  gathered  our  belongings  reluctantly  together, 


THE  JOXESES   OE  CRICCIETH.  lOl 

and  it  was  no  great  length  of  time  before  we 
found  ourselves  within  sight  of  Criccit^th,  which 
in  the  distance  looked,  on  such  a  day  of  clean- 
washen  skies  and  bright  sunshine,  precisely  like 
a  little  Welsh  Monaco,  with  its  castle  set  almost 
jauntily  upon  the  jutting  promontory.  Sweet- 
heart looked  long  upon  it,  and  at  last  pro- 
nounced it  very  good. 

"  I  mean  to  live  here  when  I  am  grown  up — 
yes,  indeed  !  Then  it  will  always  be  holidays  at 
the  sea-side,  and  I  shall  let  my  children  play  on 
the  sand  all  day.  And  never  tell  them  to  come 
in  till  it  is  tea  time  and  they  are  quite  tired — 
and  you  and  mother  shall  live  here  also " 

"And  your  husband  !"  I  suggested. 

At  first  Sweetheart  was  not  at  all  willing  to 
be  convinced  of  the  necessity  for  such  an  en- 
cumbrance. But,  being  finally  over-persuaded 
to  accept  my  amendment,  owing  to  the  over- 
whelminor  analo^ries  which  I  suogrested,  she  said, 
as  an  ultimatum  : 

"  Well,  then,  he  could  stop  at  home  and 
work," 

It  is  at  least  well  that  the  poor  man  should 
be  forewarned  and  forearmed. 

At  Criccieth  we  dismounted  at  the  door  of  a 


I02  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

house  which  promised  refreshment,  and  which 
looked  clean  and  cosey.  We  were  much  too 
poor  to  go  to  the  fine  hotels  which  stood  near 
the  station.  Besides  which  we  had  had  enoucjh, 
on  our  first  day  out,  of  the  manners  and  cus- 
toms of  the  great  to  such  as  we.  So,  very 
respectfully,  we  knocked  at  the  door  of  "  Glanar- 
fon  House,"  which,  in  spite  of  its  grand  name,  is 
just  like  every  other  house  in  the  village.  And 
as  soon  as  we  set  eyes  on  the  cap  of  the 
particular  Mrs.  Jones  who  opened  to  us,  we  were 
sure  that  we  had  fallen  upon  our  feet. 

"  Please,  father,"  thus  I  was  instructed,  "ask 
for  jam  for  two,  and  if  there  is  a  cat  to  play 
with  !"  There  were  all  three,  so  the  maid  was 
more  than  ever  determined  to  live  always  in 
Criccieth. 

While  things  were  getting  into  working  order 
at  "  Glanarfon  House,"  we  strolled  casually 
down  to  the  beach,  at  sight  of  which,  with  its 
crescent  of  sand,  yellow  shining  against  the  pure 
blue.  Sweetheart  uttered  a  little  cry  of  pleasure 
and  darted  out  to  see  if  she  could  find  any  store 
of  shells  upon  it. 

I  sat  down  on  an  upturned  boat.  To  me 
presently  entered  an   aged  man  with   a   nautical 


THE   /OXESKS   OE   CRICCIETH. 


lO 


hitch  in  liis  walk.  lie  discoursed  upon  the 
glories  of  Criccieth.  He  was  also  a  huidator  of 
the  comiii":  times.  There  was  to  be  a  grfeat 
hotel.     There  were  already  the  beginnings  of  a 


"  HF,    DISCOIRSED    UPON   THE   GLORIES   OF   CRICCIETH. 


promenade — all  made  of  expensive  concrete, 
along  the  shore.  B)--and-by  there  would  be 
exhibitions,  and  photographic  saloons,  and  a 
band  on  the  beach.  Nay,  it  was  even  whispered, 
but    for    the    present    it    must  be  kept  dark  to 


104  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

guard  against  the  envy  and  jealousy  of  Pwll- 
heli— that  cunningest  of  rivals — that  the  com- 
missioners of  town  improvements  were  in  terms 
with  a  troupe  of  minstrels — real  darkies,  who 
had  formerly  performed  upon  the  bones  and 
tambourine  at  the  mighty  Blackpool  itself. 

I  could  not  sufificiently  express  to  the  reverend 
man  my  envious  admiration  of  the  march  of 
im^provement.  With  geraniimis  on  the  village 
green,  planted  out  in  pots,  and  a  troupe  of 
niggers  dancing  clog-dances  on  a  new  concrete 
promenade — I  felt  that  Criccieth  would  indeed 
be  an  Arcady  all  too  perfect. 

But  I  felt  compelled  to  ask  the  seafaring  man 
not  to  mention  these  thinos  to  Sweetheart. 
For  the  determination  to  reside  permanently  at 
Criccieth  would  undoubtedly  have  turned  to 
adamant  at  the  idea  of  the  minstrels.  The 
ancient  mariner,  who  in  his  youth  had  often 
sailed  to  America,  declared  in  the  dialect  of  that 
country  that  "  he  would  not  give  me  away."  I 
thanked  him  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  for  I  am  a 
man  under  authority.  He  said  that  he  was  a 
married  man  himself,  and  knew  how  it  was 
when  "them  childer  got  round  the  old 
woman."     In    spite    of   the   fact   that  his   name 


THE  JONESES  OF  CRICCIETH.  105 

was  Jones,  he  was  a  most  feeling-hearted 
man. 

On  returning  to  "  Glanarfon  House,"  we  found 
a  repast  spread  for  us.  There  was  great  plent)' 
of  the  articles  which  were  beloved  of  the  Sweet- 
heart— jam  and  also  marmalade,  besides  the 
bacon  and  eggs  which  she  and  I  consider  to  be 
the  traveller's  staff  of  life,  and  tea  from  the 
brown  pot,  brewed,  not  boiled.  We  contributed 
on  our  own  account  two  of  the  healthiest  and 
most  sufficient  appetites  on  record.  All  the 
while  Mrs.  Jones  (the  nine  and  ninetieth  we 
had  encountered)  stood  over  us,  moving  rest- 
lessly about  and  crooning  with  delight.  She 
queried  chiefly  of  Sweetheart's  age. 

"  And  is  the  young  lady  only  four  ?  Indeed,  it 
is  a  wonder.     It  is  beautiful  to  see — beautiful." 

But  what  was  beautiful  I  was  not  quite  able 
to  make  out,  though  Mrs.  Jones  repeated  the 
statement  an  inconceivable  number  of  times. 
As  for  Sweetheart,  she  did  not  trouble  herself 
about  the  matter.  But,  "like  a  well-conducted 
person,"  that  eminently  practical  damsel  "  kept 
on  eating  bread  and  butter  " — also  ham,  eggs, 
and  marmalade,  all  on  the  same  plate  and  at  the 
same  time.      For  this  is  one  of  tlie  most  sacred 


io6 


SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 


conventions  of  the  gipsydom  in  which  Sweet- 
heart and  I  love  to  travel — that  everything  good 
eats  admirably  with  everything  else,  when 
served  up  on  one  plate  with  hunger  sauce.  In 
which  sentiment  Sweetheart  concurs.  The 
affidavit   carries   both    our    siofnatures. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


THE    IIOMK-COMINC    OF    D.WID    ROBERTS. 


was   a  o'lowinLi'   evenino    as  we 

wheeled     sl()\vl\-    over     the    crisp 

road    whicli   led  along  the  shore 

from  Criccieth   to   Pwllheli.      We 

were   lea\  ing  the  hills  behind  iis. 

tlioiicrh  the  Rivals  and  the  long",  undulating'  line 

of    the    Lle)'n    peninsula    still    rose    before    us. 

Sweetheart  and    I  were  almost   too  eager  to  get 

to  our  journe\'s  end  to  watch  the  quick  trij)ping 

turnstones  on   the   beach   as  they  insertetl   their 

bills  under  a  pebble,  hitched  it  over  cleverl\- with 

a  quick  turn,  and   gobbled  up  the  worm   which 

lay  coiled  beneath.      Half-a-dozen   dunlins,   too, 

purred  and  scpiabbled  further  out.     While  beyond 

107 


io8  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

all  the  herring  gulls  cried  wildly,  and  a  few  terns 
with  clipper-built,  swallow-like  wings,  flashed 
and  fell  like  rockets  in  the  bay,  sending  up  jets 
of  white  foam. 

"  What  a  lot  of  thincrs  there  are ! "  said 
Sweetheart,  unconsciously  paraphrasing  Mr. 
Stevenson,  who    sings  : 

"  The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things, 
I  think  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings." 

Along  the  unstable,  sandy  indentations  of  the 
sea  marge  we  took  our  way  ;  now  coming  out  on 
the  broad  sea  view,  now  getting  behind  a  cutting 
of  the  little  railway — which  pursued  us  all  the  way 
to  Pwllheli,  where  we  were  glad  to  be  altogether 
quit  of  its  ill-natured,  snorting  fussiness.  Some- 
times we  got  off  to  walk  a  little,  when  Sweetheart 
pulled  a  few  flowers  to  go  in  the  envelope  of 
mother's  letter.  Where  they  made,  we  fear,  a  sad 
mess,  the  colour  coming  off,  and  the  viscous  green 
of  the  stalks  acting  as  a  natural  glue  between  the 
sheets. 

At  the  foot  of  one  of  the  short  descents  we 
encountered  a  sailor  boy,  with  his  bundle  on  a 
stick,  resting  on  a  heap  of  stones.  It  was  like 
the  old  romances  of  forty  years  ago.     He  had 


THE   HOME-COMIXC,    Of  DAVID   ROBERTS. 


\0(j 


been  to  sea  and  was  cominL;  l)arl^  {vom  liis  tirsl 
voyage.  Me  showed  us  his  pass  U)  the  htlle 
villacre  station,  halfway  between  Criccieiii  and 
Pwllheli.      H(;  also  let  lis  look  at  ihc  order  for 


^»  ^y* 


;^^'2^t 


//■   ,'■'/'• 


ii,'   '  ' 


"  RKSTINi;    ON    A    HRAP    OF    STO.NES. 


his  money,  made  out  upon  the  post-of^ce  at  the 
latter  town,  where  he  and  his  mother  would  joy- 
fully go  on  the  morrow  to  claim  it.  Mis  "  kit" 
had.  he  said,  gone  on  b\-  train.  He  was  a  nice 
boy,  and  so  little  bashful  was  he  that,  right  before 
our  eves,  he  first  washed  his  tace  and  then  combed 


no  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

his  hair  with  a  pocket  comb  into  a  sleek 
nautical  curve  over  his  forehead.  He  w^ished 
to  be  neat  before  he  would  venture  round 
the  corner  to  his  mother's  door  to  take  her 
by    surprise. 

There  was  poetry  in  the  thought.  Small 
doubt  but  that  he  had  dreamed  a  thousand 
times  of  this  when  his  ship  was  tossing  round 
the  Horn,  or  when  he  was  loading  grain  at  Cali- 
fornia and  hides  at  Valparaiso  or  Callao.  He 
had  fancied  himself  back  at  this  little  brook  just 
round  the  corner  from  his  mother's  cottage/ 
making  his  toilet,  and  the  brown  Welsh  bees 
humming  all  about  in  the  stone-crop  and  the 
heather.  So  here,  after  all  his  adventures,  he 
was,  just  as  he  had  so  often  dreamed.  And  yet, 
in  spite  of  all,  he  had  time  to  talk  to  a  couple  of 
tramps  by  the  wayside. 

"Will  your  mother  know  that  you  have 
landed  ?"    we  asked. 

"Oh,  no!"  he  said;  "for  we  just  got  into 
Liverpool  last   night,  at   ten   o'clock." 

"  But  the  newspaper "  I  suggested. 

The  sailor  lad  laughed  cheerily.  He  had 
thought  of  that.  There  is  time  aboard  ship  to 
think  of  everything. 


"  SHE   LOOKED    VERY    HAKU    AT    US." 


THE    HOME-COMIXG   OF  DAVID   KO BERTS.        113 

"  My  mother  gets  the  Banner  once  a  week," 
he  said — "on  Saturdays." 

Suddenly  our  friend  leaped  briskly  over  the 
turf  dyke,  and  to  our  astonishment  whispered  to 
us  from  the  other  side  to  keep  still  and  say 
nothing.  A  tall  slip  of  a  girl,  with  her  hair 
done  into  a  plait,  came  slowly  along,  swinging  a 
cow-switch  in  her  hand.  She  looked  very  hard 
at  us,  as  Sweetheart  and  I  sat,  mighty  guiltily, 
by  the  side  of  the  road.  But  though  we  were 
all  astonished,  not  one  of  us  said  a  single  word. 

As  soon  as  she  was  past  our  friend  sprang 
over  the  dyke  with  a  joyous  light  in  his  eye. 

"  That  was  my  sister,"  he  said,  "  and  if  she  had 
seen  me  she  would  have  run  riorht  off  and  told 
my  mother,  and   that  would  have  spoiled  it  all." 

Evidently  the  dramatic  grandeur  of  this  arrival 
was  to  pay  for  a  great  deal.  He  was  to  make  a 
memorable  entry,  and  we  wanted  with  all  our 
hearts  to  see  it  without  being  too  intrusive. 
David  Roberts  was  our  sailor's  name.  We 
could  almost  have  hugged  him  that  it  was  not 
Jones.  But  it  would,  indeed,  have  been  some- 
what too  cruel  to  have  stayed  and  taken  part  in 
that  welcome.  So,  rising  from  the  stone-heap, 
he  put    himself   into    marching   order.      We    all 


114  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

shook  hands,  and  I  think  there  was  a  warmth 
about  our  hearts,  as  if  we  too  had  all  been  round 
the  Horn  and  were  going,  after  two  years,  to  take 
our  mothers  by  surprise. 

David  Roberts  went  on  ahead,  while  we 
mounted  in  some  haste  and  followed  discreetly 
after.  There  was  a  low-built,  white-washed 
cottage  before  us,  basking  in  the  evening  sun. 
And  there,  too,  was  David  Roberts,  who  had 
now  no  eyes  for  the  like  of  us.  The  door  was 
open,  and  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  woman,  with 
gray  hair  and  a  print  gown,  standing  at  a  table 
within.  We  thought  that  her  face  looked 
weary.  Be  of  good  cheer,  good  mother ! 
There  is  that  on  the  threshold  of  your  door 
which  will  bring  back  the  light  to  the  eyes 
which  have  wept  so  many  tears  since  the  little 
lad  went  away.  Go  in,  David  Roberts,  and 
shut  the  door.  With  the  heart-joy  of  thy 
mother  and  thee,  God  forbid  that  a  stranger 
should    intermeddle  ! 

As  we  glanced  round  for  the  last  time  ere  we  • 
turned    the   curve   out   of  sight,    the   road     was 
empty  and    bare.       But  we  knew  where   David 
Roberts  was,  and  we  knew,  too,  what  his  mother 
was  saying  to  him. 


NEVIN   BEACH. 


CHAPTER   XV. 


(( 


UNWIDDEK-LIKE    DEEDS. 


I  T^"^  10  Sweetheart  and  I  posted  on  with 
I  \Mi'^ >7i  J  our  eves  a  little  dim.  We  were 
v/  ^^y^  V,  agreed  in  the  opinion  that  l)a\id 
Roberts  was  the  best  of  boys,  but 
that  would  n<^t  help  us  to  reach 
Nevin  above  the  cru milling  heughs  of  Porth- 
dynlle\n.  So  at  long  and  last  came  Pwllheli, 
where,  in  the  funny  little  wooden  restaurant  by 
the  station,  a  very  polite  maiden  gave  us  most 
excellent  tea.  There  was  also  an  aquiline-faced 
young  man,    bold    of   e\"e,    seated   at  the   table. 

115 


Il6  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

He  had  a  cup  of  coffee  set  before  him,  which  he 
stirred  round  and  round  while  he  gazed,  without 
winking,  at  the  pair  of  us.  He  might,  by  his 
look,  have  been  a  policeman  sent  to  take  us  up 
for  some  unheard-of  crime,  but  he  was  clad  in 
workman's  moleskins  and  dusted  gray  with 
quarry  dust. 

"  Been  takin'  the  young  'un  riding,  boss  ?"  he 
asked.      "  That's  a  bright  idea." 

"You've  been  in  the  States?"  replied  I, 
giving  him  back  question  for  question,  as  a 
Scotsman  must  by  nature. 

He  had,  he  said.  It  was  "a  son-of-a-gun  of 
a  fine  country  out  there."  He  wished  he  had 
never  left  it.  We  asked  him  why  he  forsook  it 
at  all,  since  these  were  his  opinions. 

"  Too  much  shoot,"  he  said  enigmatically. 
And  he  imitated  with  wonderful  accuracy  the 
movements  of  taking  a  revolver  from  his  thigh 
and  discharging  it  at  a  visionary  antagonist. 
The  Sweetheart  looked  at  him  with  fascinated 
eyes,  and  yet  without  any  fear. 

"Did  they  make  gold  where  you  were?"  she 
asked,  looking  at  his  great  hands  and  arms  as 
they  lay  resting  on  the  bare  boards  of  the  table 
opposite  us,  veined  and  muscular  with  toil. 


''UNIVIDDER-LIKE   DEEDS."  1 19 

"Not  SO  bright  as  your  hair,  missy,"  he  said, 
pohtely  and  kindl\-,  as  he  rose  to  go  out. 

This  was  cjuite  another  t\pe  from  our  sailor 
boy.  He  was.  we  found,  employed  in  manag- 
ing the  dynamite  at  some  quarries  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  was  known  tlicrc  as  "Denver 
Mike." 

Soon  we  were  speeding  out  of  Pwllheli, 
through  the  fine  trees  that  made  a  pleasant 
lattice-work  overhead.  It  was  more  like  Mr. 
Gale's  Arcady  in  leaf\-  Warwickshire,  than  the 
bare  wind-swept  west  of  Carnarvon.  As  we 
went,  a  farmer,  driving  a  smart  trap,  raced  lis  for 
a  while  along  the  splendid  road.  Sweetheart 
was,  of  course,  immensely  delighted,  and  leaned 
back  and  forward  to  expedite  the  pace  at  the 
word  of  command.  As  we  drew  awav,  owino- 
to  our  superior  speed  on  the  level,  and  also,  I 
fear,  to  our  recklessness  down-hill,  she  turned 
round  and  waved  her  hand  with  a  kind  of 
dainty  provocation,  to  which  the  jolly  farmer 
responded  with  his  whip  right  gallantly.  I  do 
not  think  that  he  really  meant  to  beat  us,  see- 
ing that  the  lady  passenger's  heart  would  have 
been  well-nigli  broken  by  that  event.  But  Sweet- 
heart and    I   were  sure  that   he  could  not  have 


I20  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

done  so  if  he  would.  Thus  scouring  the  road, 
"  like  stour,"  as  we  say  in  Scotland,  we  came 
out  on  a  fine,  open,  wind-swept  plain,  across 
which  the  long,  broad  highway  ran,  straight  as 
an  arrow,  right  into  the  eye  of  the  setting 
sun. 

The  telegraph  wires,  a  perfect  network  of 
them,  hummed  and  buzzed  overhead.  They 
were  carrying  messages,  so  we  imagined  (and 
let  no  man  correct  us  if  we  be  wrong)  over  to 
the  Green  Island — lovers'  messages  to  their 
sweethearts,  above  that  beautiful,  useless  road 
which  had  been  intended  to  carry  so  much 
precious   merchandise   to   poor   old    Ireland. 

So  swiftly  were  we  speeding  that  it  was  not 
long  before  we  came  to  the  angle  in  the  road, 
where  a  guide-post  told  us  that  we  must  turn 
aside  and  face  the  short  hill  which  leads  up  to 
Nevin.  Thither  arrived,  we  found  our  way  to 
the  Nanhoron  Arms,  which  is  a  goodly  hostelry 
and  a  kindly,  whose  ham  and  eggs  are  of  the 
best,  and  where  there  is  no  scorn  for  the  light- 
pocketed  travellers  who  prefer  "  tramps'  ordi- 
nary "  to  the  state  and  expense  of  a  dinner  in 
three  volumes. 

There  still  remained  time  before  nightfall  for 


OUT   I'PON   THE   GREAT  CLIFFS   BEFORE   NIGHTFALL. 


''UNWIDDER-LIKE   DEEDS."  123 

US  to  go  out  Upon  the  great  cliffs  of  which  we 
had  caught  a  ghmpse  as  we  rode  into  the  town. 
The  road  was  a  pleasant  one,  meandering 
throuQ-h  fields.  Stonechats  were  flittiner  here 
and  there,  flirting  with  each  other  in  pairs,  and 
keeping  just  a  few  paces  in  front  of  us.  The 
lover  was  got  up  in  his  gayest  holiday  attire, 
and  he  poised  himself  in  the  air  like  a  hum- 
ming-bird over  a  flower.  There  were  many 
pairs  of  them  on  the  open  hillside,  and  they  were 
to  be  found  on  almost  every  bramble  bush. 
They  would  permit  the  nearer  approach  of  the 
Sweetheart  than  of  anyone  else — her  red  cloak 
and  sunshiny  hair  being  somehow  akin  to  them- 
selves, and  her  gait  being  obviously  devoid 
of  any  serious  or  deadly  intent.  It  is  some- 
times a  great  privilege  to  be  only  four  years 
old.  And  this  w^as  the  son^  she  was  sineine. 
She  had  learned  it  as  we  rode  that  morninor 
under  the  great  Glyder  and  in  front  of  the  deep 
corrie  of  Cwm  Dyli  : 

"  A  blooming  young  widder, 
Ran  right  up  tlie  Glyder, 

All  in  her  wiclder's  weeds  ; 
She  came  back  by  Cwm  Dyli, 
Astride  of  a  filly — 
Dear  me,  what  unwidder-liUe  deeds  !" 


124  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

This  I  had  taught  her,  to  my  sorrow,  and  for 
my  sins  it  had  been  ringing  in  my  ears  all  the 
day.  However,  now  at  eventide,  the  stone- 
chats  seemed  to  like  it.  And  they  were  not 
shocked  at  the  Bacchantic  abandon  of  the 
singer,  nor  yet  at  the  "  unwidder-like  deeds" 
of  the   bereaved  lady  of  the  song. 

The  cliffs  at  Nevin  are  many  hundreds  of  feet 
high — the  exact  number  may  be  ascertained,  no 
doubt,  from  the  guide-books.  To  Sweetheart 
and  myself  they  looked  simply  tremendous. 
The  fact  that  they  are  nothing  more  than 
crumbling  earth  only  adds  to  the  aspect  of 
alarm.  We  seemed  in  momentary  danger  of 
slipping  over  into  the  sea.  As  we  came  to  the 
steep  ascent,  we  saw  a  glorious  picture  before 
us.  The  sun  was  dipping  into  the  water.  He 
was  as  red  as  blood,  and  a  broad  pathway  of  fire 
stretched  across  toward  him,  which  broadened 
as  it  went  westward. 

"What  is  over  there?"  asked  the  Sweetheart, 
pointing  where  the  sun  had  gone  down. 

"  That,"  I  replied,  "  is  Ireland." 

"  Then,"  she  said,  "  it  will  just  be  beginning 
to  be  sunshine  in  Ireland  !  " 

For  which,  indeed,  we  pray. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


THE    LOST    LAND    OF    LLEYN. 


UR  last  day  out  dawned  like 
the  appearing  of  a  new  heavens 
and  a  new  earth.  "  emerged  from 
some  diviner  bath  of  birth,"  as 
somebody  says.  Nevin,  but  for 
the  slate  roofs,  might  this  morn- 
ing have  been  mistaken  for  some  exiguous  sub- 
urb of  Paradise.  i  here  was  exactly  the  feeling 
of  George  Herbert's  Sabbath  around  us,  though 
as  yet  it  was  only  Saturday  : 

"  Sweet  clay,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright. 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky." 

This  day  we  were  finally  to   perform  what  we 

125 


126  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

had  come  so  far  to  do.  So  it  was  no  wonder 
that  we  were  up  betimes.  We  had  to  circum- 
navigate, or  rather  circum-cycle,  the  entire  prom- 
ontory of  the  Lleyn.  Years  ago,  before  the 
Sweetheart  hopped  up  h"ke  a  restless  Bird  of 
Paradise  into  the  world's  cage,  the  Lleyn  had 
fascinated  the  chief-engineer,  as  he  saw  it  from 
the  woody  skirts  of  Cader  Idris.  Then,  for  the 
sake  of  a  prehistoric  Sweetheart,  he  made  a  verse- 
sketch  which,  though  of  no  account  in  itself,  had 
ever  since  held  out  the  promise  of  an  enchanted 
land,  some  day  to  be  visited. 
Here  it  is  : 

"  Goldener  than  gold's  clear  self, 
Above  the  purpling  mountain  mass  the  sun 
Doth  hang,  mist-mellow  in  the  even-shine. 
Higher,  the  level  curtain  of  the  rain  — 
Soft  summer  rain,  that  blesseth  where  it  falls — 
Lets  drop  two  sun-illumined  folds  of  shower 
Over  yon  dim  blue  western  promontory — 
The  folk  here  call  it  Lleyn.     Seen  hence  it  seems 
A  chain  of  islands  like  our  Hebrides, 
Adream  amid  the  rain-stilled  Northern  Sea. 

Even  thus,  my  Love,  as  thy  life  circles  mine, 
And  thy  dear  influence,  like  the  blessed  rain, 
Stilleth  and  purifieth  the  sea's  surge — 
So  is  the  barren,  lone,  unquiet  sea 
Bound  by  the  bands  of  habitable  land. 
Stilled  by  the  gentle  falling  of  the  rain." 


THE  LOST  LAND   OF  LLEYN.  127 

Ever  since  writiair  these  lines  between  the 
summer  showers  on  the  slopes  of  Cader,  as  a 
painter  may  throw  a  hasty  memorandum  on 
paper  for  memory's  sake,  the  Lleyn  had  been  a 
haunted  land,  and  now  we  were  to  encircle  it. 
To  Sweetheart  and  myself  it  was  indeed  a 
"  Blue  day."  There  was  a  cheerful  crying 
about  the  Nanhoron  Arms  in  the  early  morn- 
ing. William  Hughes  was  shrilly  requested  to 
turn  out  our  team  in  marching  order,  and  in  due 
time  William  Hughes,  be  it  said,  approved  him- 
self a  good  and  capable  groom. 

"  A  fair  good  passage  all  the  way  to  Aber- 
daron,"  cried  after  us  Captain  Thomas,  a  warm- 
hearted sailor,  now  safe  in  port  at  Kevin.  He 
had  talked  of  strange  lands  with  us  on  the 
evenino-  before,  so  now  with  his  hearty  benison 
we  wheeled  swiftly  southward,  with  the  sun  and 
wind  uniting  to  make  for  us  a  brisk  perfection 
of  riding. 

The  road,  too.  though  stony  and  uneven,  was 
of  fair  gradient,  and  conducted  us  through  a 
country  quite  new  and  unknown.  We  found 
the  Lleyn  to  be  on  the  whole  a  flat,  broomy. 
heathery  country,  rising  toward  the  other  side 
of    the    promontory    into    darkly  shagg)'    and 


128 


SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 


rugored    ridoes.      But   it  was    far    from    beino-  a 


land    without    inhabitants.       On    the    contrary, 


A   FAIR    PASSAGE." 


blue-bloused  men  and  white-capped  women-folk 
stirred  slumberously  about  a  score  of  small 
crofts   and   wayside  farm-towns.     The   Lleyn  is 


THE  LOST  LAND   OF  LLEYN.  129 

indeed  a  "  band  of  habitable  land,"  as  1  had 
imagined  it  ten  years  ago  from  the  shores  of 
County  Meirion. 

But  these  were  not  at  all  the  Lleyn  folk  I  had 
pictured.  There  was  something  of  the  PVench 
peasant  about  them.  Their  cloaks  of  red,  seen 
in  the  distance,  burned  holes  in  the  landscape, 
like  peony  roses  with  the  sun  on  them.  The 
wind  blew  scraps  of  shrill  Cymric  speech  athwart 
us.  And  miniature  Welshmen,  compendiously 
clad  in  their  fathers'  cast-off  trousers  for  sole 
garment  (buttoned  over  their  shoulders,  their 
arms  through  the  pocket-holes),  stood  bare- 
headed to  let  us  pass.  Their  instinctive 
courtesy  was  a  marvel  to  us,  accustomed  to  the 
Gothic  boorishness  of  our  own  more  northern 
type.  Up  from  the  sea  ^^^^  came  a  waft  of 
air,  blowing  warm  and  cool  alternatel}' — warm 
from  the  heather,  cool  from  the  wide  green- 
tiecked,  purple-veined  levels  of  the  sea,  sown 
with  white  ships,  and  making  with  the  sky  one 
continuous  hollow  vault  of  colour. 

Then  aeain  a  swirl  of  still  warmer  summer 
air  blew  softly  across  the  purple  moorlands  that 
divided  us  from  the  eastern  seaboard,  and 
touched    our    cheeks   like    a    caress. 


13°  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

As  we  breathed  ourselves  for  a  few  minutes 
on  the  summit  of  a  long  rise,  Sweetheart 
said  : 

"  Father,  I  hear  the  grass-chatterers  ! " 

It  was  the  chirp  of  the  grasshoppers  among 
the  long  bennet  grasses  that  she  heard.  For 
the  "chatterers"  were  out  in  hosts  that  fine 
spring  morning,  though  it  was  hardly  their  time 
yet,  and  in  the  sound  we  seemed  to  learn  that 
hay-time  was  not  so  far  off.  A  clergyman  stood 
at  his  door — a  farmer  parson  he,  with  straws  on 
his  coat  and  a  fork  in  his  hand.  He  was  a  heart- 
some  cleric,  and  gave  us  jovial  greeting  with  the 
hay- fork  as  we  went  by. 

We  kept  the  sea  on  our  right  all  the  way,  and 
from  that  hand  also  the  breeze  unsteadily  came. 
The  sun  beat  on  the  other  side  till  the  south- 
ward slopes  of  Sweetheart  and  myself  were 
completely  baked.  Still  there  was  no  word  of 
Aberdaron.  The  fourteen  miles  from  Nevin 
had  spun  themselves  out  wondrously.  There, 
at  last,  far  away  over  the  flat  moorlands  we 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  crown  of  Bardsey 
Island.  The  green-and-purple  streaked  sea 
stood  up  behind  it,  solid  as  veined  malachite. 
A  white  path  wound  up  to  the  heathery  summit 


THE   LOST  LAND   OF  LLRYN.  131 

of  a  hill  near  at  hand,  in  mazy  loops  of  rocky 
pathway.  But  that  was  the  last  ascent  before 
we  rattled  down  into  Aberdaron,  and  descended 
at  the  New  Inn  to  partake  of  home-brewed  beer 
and  delicious  brown  bread. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


A    CHILD  S    PARADISE. 


BERDARON  is  unique.  There 
is  no  place  in  the  three  kingdoms 
in  the  least  like  it.  It  is  a  vil- 
lage transferred  bodily  from  the 
operatic  stage.  The  houses  are 
toylike  and  unconnected,  so  tiny  that  "we  looked 
instinctively  for  comely  little  hay-makers  in  pink 
and  emerald  green,  scattering  baskets  of  flowers, 
to  come  dancing  and  balancing  out  of  them, 
twirling  skirts  and  pirouetting  as  they  came. 
Little  artificial-looking  streams  run  here  and 
there,  dividing  the  whole  place  into  a  series  of 

132 


A    CHILD'S  PARADISE.  '33 

green  islands,  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  being- 
crossed  by  a  multiplicity  of  wooden  bridges 
transported  from  Lilliput.  The  houses  are 
overgrown  with  creepers,  and  the  aspect  of  the 
whole  is  that  of  a  stage  village  after  the  play  is 
over.  The  only  thing  practical  about  the  whole 
neighbourhood  is  a  universal  provider's  shop, 
and  that  is  kept  by  a  Scotsman,  whole-souled 
and  hearty.  Shake  hands.  Captain  jMacdonald, 
you  keep  up  right  well  the  hospitable  traditions 
of  your  countr)'  and  clan.  I  have  not  forgotten 
your  fraternal  welcome  in  a  strange  land,  nor 
yet  the  excellence  of  your  good  cheer. 

As  we  went  through  the  street  of  the  villai^e 
toward  the  shore,  the  sea  might  have  been  a 
hundred  miles  away.  Suddenh',  however,  we 
turned  a  corner  between  a  pigsty  and  an  up- 
turned boat,  and  lo,  there — quick  as  a  drop- 
curtain,  a  glorious  half-moon  of  shining  sand 
and  a  great  plain  of  sapphire  sea  were  flashing 
upon  us  in  a  moment.  The  sight  fairly  took 
OLir  breaths  from  us.  We  could  hardlv  think 
that  we  were  in  the  land  of  reality.  It  was  so 
e.xact  a  "crib"  froni  the  lantlscape  painter. 
Usually  Nature  is  accitlcntal  and  not  pictorial. 
But  let  those  who  think  that  Nature  never  com- 


134  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

poses  anything  naturally  pictorial  go  to  Aber- 
daron. 

The  "sickle  sweep"  of  Aberdaron  Bay  ends 
in  two  bold  headlands,  which  to-day  were  blended 
of  gray  and  purple  and  crimson  according  to  the 
strictest  conventions  of  art.  Two  islands  had 
been  placed  in  exactly  the  right  positions  to  be 
most  effective  in  the  middle  distance,  and  there 
they  swam  in  a  golden  purple  haze.  Boats  and 
wreckage  strewed  the  beach,  which  was  flecked 
with  magnificently  coloured  pebbles — some  red 
as  blood,  others  splashed  with  orange  and  lilac. 
Pure  white  nuggets  of  quartz  and  saffron  sea- 
shells  lie  scattered  among  them.  The  man  who 
first  bui'lds  a  hotel  at  Aberdaron  will  first  make 
his  fortune — and  then  go  to  his  own  place  for 
desecrating  the  fairest  spot  God  made. 

The  Sweetheart  never  had  seen  such  a  place. 
She  had  always  had  a  lingering  doubt  about  the 
possibility  of  greater  joy  in  heaven  than  she  has 
experienced  on  earth.  But  the  horizon  of  her 
possibilities  of  happiness  was  suddenly  widened. 

And  the  chief  engineer  begran  to  dream  of  the 
works  which  might  be  accomplished  in  the 
tranced  quiet  of  this  earthly  paradise,  looking 
out  on  these  summer  isles  of  beauty,  and  stilled 


A    CHILD'S  PARADISE.  135 

by  tlic  murmur  of  this  slumberous  sea.  Per- 
chance it  might  prove  all  too  slumberous  for 
action,  who  knows  ?  But,  at  all  events,  Aberda- 
ron  made  a  good  and  appropriate  resting-place 
after  our  long-time  journeyings.  It  was  true 
that  we  had  to  return  some  time.  But  not  yet ! 
It  was  true,  also,  that  in  time  Sweetheart  would 
tire  of  collectincr  the  red  stones  and  the  white. 
But  what  need  to  thmk  of  sad  satiety  ? — at  least, 
not  yet  a  while.  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the 
pleasure  thereof.  See  the  Sweetheart  thrill  with 
laughter  as  she  watches  a  green  crab  scuttle 
sidelonor  into  its  hole.  There  is  not  a  note  of 
discord  or  possible  pain  in  all  her  world.  The 
happiness  of  Aberdaron  beach  abides  but  for  an 
hour — a  child's  paradise,  maybe  ;  but  it  is  all 
perfect  while  it  lasts.  "  Of  such  is  the  Kingdom 
of  Heaven  !"  I  wonder  if  we  quite  understand. 
It  is  the  \ouno:  child's  hour,  and  it  is  without 
alloy.      Heaven  will  last  longer — that  is  all. 


"  IS    IT    ABOUT    FAIRIES?" 

CHAPTER   XVIII. 

sweetheart's  sweethearts. 

T  grieves  me  to  be  compelled 
to  put  on  record  the  facts  con- 
tained in  this  chapter.  But  as 
a  warning  to  wayward  children, 
and  an  incentive  to  parents 
to  practise  a  sternness  which, 
alas !  the  writer  only  preaches,  I  am  deter- 
mined to  do  my  duty.  For  what  is  life 
without  love  ?  And  what  is  love  without 
fidelity?  It  w^ould  be  a  proud  day  if,  with  some 
approach  to  the  truth,  I  could  speak  of  Sweet- 
heart's sweethearts  in  the  singular  number. 
Once  upon  a   time — ah,  happy    happy  day  ! — I 

136 


SWEETHEART'S  SWEETHEARTS.  137 

fondly  deluded  myself  with  the  belief  that  she 
had  but  one— and  that  one  a  person  whose 
many  admirable  qualities  so  speak  for  them- 
selves that  I  may  be  excused  from  further 
alluding  to  them. 

But  that  day  has  long-  passed  away.  The 
multiplication-table  itself  cannot  contain  the 
number  of  the  victims.  Even  Tw^elve-times- 
Twelve  itself  is  unequal  to  the  strain.  Yet 
wdien  Sweetheart  is  charged  with  being  of  a 
fickle  heart,  she  only  tosses  her  head,  and  with 
the  charming  privilege  of  her  sex  she  says,  "  I 
don't  care  !"     And  she  really  does  not  care. 

Which  is  the  saddest  part  of  it,  and  argues  a 
orowine  callousness.  For  once  she  did  care. 
It  is  recorded  in  the  earlier  chronicles  of  the 
family  that  on  one  occasion  little  Johnny  Fox 
ran  in  to  his  mother,  beblubbered  with  tears 
and  melodious  with  howls.  He  was  the  same 
youth  to  whom  Sweetheart  once  proposed 
honourable  w'edlock. 

"Johnny,  what  is  the  matter?"  asked  his 
doting  parent. 

"Oh,  mother,"  cried  Johnny,  between  his 
sobs,  "  Sweetheart  says — if  I  won't  play — Kiss- 
in-the-rino-,  she'll  bauQ-  me  over  the  head  !" 


13^  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

He  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  not  a  warlike 
youth. 

"  Never  mind,  Johnny,"  replied  his  mother, 
"  it  is  possible  that  some  day  you  may  change 
your  mind  about  that  !  " 

But  when  that  day  comes,  it  is  possible  that 
Johnny  Fox's  mother  may  not  like  the  idea 
quite  as  well  as  she  does  now. 

But  the  fury  of  a  woman  scorned  no  longer 
abides  in  Sweetheart's  bosom.  Boys,  her  equals 
in  age,  delight  her  not.  For  has  she  not  sweet- 
hearts a  many,  all  bearded  and  moustached, 
grown  men  of  standing  and  dignity.  Indeed, 
grave  and  reverend  seniors  have  been  proud  to 
do  obeisance  to  our  Giddy-pate-a-dreams  for  no 
brief  space.  She  drags  them  captive  at  the 
wheels  of  her  chariot,  affecting  a  primness  and 
distance  of  demeanour  in  the  drawing-room 
which  is  belied  by  the  extreme  familiarity  of  her 
discourse  to  them  in  her  hours  of  ease. 

"  Come  here  at  once  and  help  to  play  going 
to  church  ! "  was  her  word  of  command  on  one 
occasion  to  the  least  of  her  slaves. 

"You  come  right  into  the  vestibule!"  she 
commanded.  "  No — not  that  way,  but  prop- 
erly.     I'll  show  you  how.     Take  off  your  hat  ! 


SWEETHEART'S   SWEETHEARTS.  139 

There  !  Now,  i^ct  your  collection  ready.  No, 
you  don't  !  [The  unprincipled  churchgoer 
being  about  to  [)ass  in  without  contributing.] 
Oh,  no  ;  [nit  y(jur  pcnii)'  in  the  plate  first. 
There  now  !     Noio  I  will  show  you  to  a  seat." 

So,  with  slow  and  fateful  step  and  censorious 
chin  in  the  air,  the  Slave  is  duly  shown  to  a 
pew,  and  the  imaginary  door  shut  upon 
him.  From  which  safe  eminence— it  is  upon 
the  rickety  seat  of  a  prehistoric  summer-house — 
he  is  privileged  to  observe  the  dignity  with 
which  the  small  elder  stands  at  the  plate,  the 
calm  importance  of  her  attitude,  and  especially 
the  bcatidc  smile  with  which  each  j>urely 
imaginary  contribution  is  acknowledged.  It  is 
indeed  a  notable  lesson  in  ecclesiastical  deport- 
ment, and  shows  us  kirk-proud  Scots  that  our 
most  national  and  cherished  institutions  are 
capable  of  improvement.  Yet  there  is  not  the 
faintest  le\  it)'  in  Sweetheart's  treatment  of  the- 
subject.  Upon  the  least  flicker  of  a  smile  being 
discerned  upon  any  face.  Sweetheart  instantly 
concludes  that  the  smiler  is  wholly  unworth)-  of 
her  confidence,  and  dismisses  him  with  ignominy 
into  the  outer  void  of  those  who  are  not  fit  to 
play  in  her  plays. 


14°  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

But  I  promised  to  speak  of  Sweetheart's 
other  lovers.  I  admit  that  the  lady  is  by  no 
means  mercenary  in  her  attachments. 

"  I  am  not  allowed  to  take  money,"  she  said 
in  a  dignified  manner  to  one  who  proffered 
coin  of  the  realm  to  propitiate  the  favour  of  the 
goddess,  "  but  you  can  send  me  a  book — they 
mostly  do.  Or  toffee,"  she  added  thoughtfully, 
"  there  is  a  good  shop  just  round  the  corner." 

So,  as  has  been  remarked  by  some  super- 
fluously wise  man  or  other,  there  are  more 
ways  of  killing  a  cat  than  drowning  it  in  cream. 

Sweetheart  has  a  shelf  of  books — all  her  own, 
and  nearly  each  one  of  them  has  been  sent  to 
her  by  the  authors  of  these  books.  But,  alas  ! 
not  in  every  case  does  she  appear  to  appreciate 
the  value  of  the  gift. 

She  has,  in  fact,  but  one  question  to  ask 
about  a  new  arrival  when  it  is  unwrapped. 
And  that  is  : 

"  Is  it  about  fairies?" 

If  it  is,  well.  She  will  be  graciously  pleased 
to  be  read  to  out  of  it,  and  to  pore  over  the 
pictures,  particularly  if  they  are  coloured.  But 
if  otherwise,  and  if  no  fairies  appear  to  be 
treated  of,  she  says  : 


SWEETHEART'S  SWEETHEARTS.  M^ 

"I  think  that  I  shall  irivc  this  one  to  liueo!" 

For  it  is  always  a  fine  thing  to  be  generous. 

To  Mr.  Sagaman,  the  famous  author  of  one 
of  the  luost  approved  books  of  fairy  lore, — and 
one,  indeed,  who  afterward  stood  on  the  dizzy 
pinnacle  of  her  favour, — Sweetheart's  first  com- 
mand was  : 

"  Now,  tell  me  all  about  the  Giant  Blunder- 
bore  ! " 

The  unfortunate  author,  thus  assaulted,  inti- 
mated that  all  his  information  about  the  person 
alluded  to  was  summed  up  in  a  couplet  which 
hc!  is  suspected  of  having  feloniously  made  up 
on  the  spot.  (With  authors  you  never  can 
tell  I)     The  lines  were  these  : 

"The  Cornish  giant  Blunderbore, 
He  gave  a  mighty  thunder-roar." 

Sweetheart,  however,  was  entirely  dissatisfied 
with  this  explanation,  tliough  Hugo  instantly 
appropriated  the  stanza,  and  has  repeated  it  to 
every  person  whom  he  has  encountered  unto 
this  day.  But  Sweetheart  could  not  make  out 
how  the  author  of  a  book  (and  sucli  a  book  I) 
could  fail  to  know  more  about  one  of  his  most 
important  characters. 


142  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

"  Did  you  copy  that  out  of  another  book?" 
she  said. 

And  the  wretched  being  could  not  deny  it- — 
or  at  least  did  not.  He  only  nervously  laughed, 
no  doubt  in  distress  at  being  found  out,  and 
said  : 

"  Some  day  I'll  write  you  another  story,  all  for 
yourself ! " 

This  was  wholly  satisfactory.  But  Sweet- 
heart wanted  a  stated  contract. 

"All  about  Blunderbore  ?"  persisted  Sweet- 
heart, to  make  sure. 

"  Yes,  all  about  nothing  but  the  most  fearful 
kind  of  oriants  and  oriantesses  ! " 

For  Sweetheart  is  no  devotee  of  the  schools 
of  fiction  which  deal  in  a  nicely  wrapped-up 
moral  lesson  in  each  book,  like  a  surprise  packet,, 
A  good-going,  cut-ancl-thrust  giant  story,  a 
pictured  horror  on  every  page,  the  corner  of  an 
arijichair  to  curl  up  in,  and  something  nice  to 
nibble  at,  are  good  enough  for  Sweetheart. 
For  she  is  a  woman  of  a  very  old  variety  indeed. 
And  had  she  been  placed  in  the  sinless  garden 
instead  of  Eve,  our  mother,  I  do  not  think  that 
the  history  of  the  race  would  very  materially 
have  been  altered.     But  the  Old  Woman — she 


SWEETHEART'S  SWEETHEARTS.  143 

of  the  clan  of  Eve — has  never  been  without  dis- 
tinct and  undeniable  attractions — at  least  for 
old-fashioned  people.  And  such,  for  the  most 
part,  Sweetheart's  admirers  are. 

One  day  a  young  man  arrived.  He  was  full 
of  good  humour  and  kindliness.  It  was  just  as 
well.  For  when  he  made  his  first  advances 
toward  the  shy  especial  favours  of  a  lover. 
Sweetheart  eyed  him  carefull)'. 

"Have  you  written  anything?"  she  asked. 

The  young  man  admitted  that  he  had 
remarked  books,  with  his  name  upon  the  backs 
of  them,  lying  about  on  bookstalls  and  such 
places.  So  he  supposed  he  must  have  written 
them. 

"  Are  they  about  fairies?" 

Sadly  the  young  man  had  to  confess,  under 
the  sternness  of  Sweetheart's  eye,  that  they  were 
not.  At  this  point  he  was  made  to  feel  very 
much  ashamed  of  himself,  as  well  he  might. 
Somewhat  weakly  he  added  that  noiL*  he  would 
have  a  fairy  to  write  about.  He  had  never 
seen  one — before.  In  a  year  or  two  this 
sugared  compliment  might  have  served  his  turn. 
For  he  is  an  ingenuous  youth,  and  has  the 
prettiest  turn  for  phrasing.      But  at  the  age  of 


144  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

five  (nearly)  maids  need  compliments  put  very 
plainly  in  order  that  they  may  understand 
them— indeed,  even  concretely.     Candy  is  best. 

"  Then,"  said  Sweetheart  remorselessly,  "  I 
don't  think  I  shall  like  you  nearly  so  much  as 
Mr.  Sagaman.  You  know,  I  love  him.  Besides, 
he  is  much  nicer-looking  than  you.  He  has 
such  beautiful  hair  and  is  a  darlinof." 

The  young  man  of  letters  expressed  his  sorrow, 
but  said  that  he  would  immediately  get  some 
gray  hair-wash.  He  wondered  if  putting  his 
head  in  the  flour-barrel  would  do.  It  was 
(green-eyed)  jealousy  which  made  him  say  this. 

"  Oh,  do  try  !  "  said  Sweetheart,  instantly  and 
eagerly,  feeling  that  this  might  be  better  even 
than  writing  fairy  books.  "  I  should  so  like  to 
see  you  do  it !  Our  flour-barrel  is  in  the  back 
pantry.     I'll  show  you  !  " 

But  the  unhappy  young  man  withdrew  his 
offer,  on  the  shallow  plea  that  his  hair  was  so 
black  that  it  would  take  the  whole  barrelful. 
And  to  that,  as  there  mio;ht  not  be  a  fairv  at  hand 
to  fill  it  again,  cook  Marion  might  object. 

Sweetheart  has  yet  another  admirer,  of  whom 
she  is  exceedingly  fond.  Mr.  Dignus  is  a  grave 
man   of  affairs,   in   aspect  serene  and  reverend. 


SWEETHEART'S  SWEETHEARTS.  145 

Rut  he  has  a  manner  with  him  as  of  onr;  wlio 
knows  the  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid — at  least 
when  that  maid  is  very  young  indeed. 

In  his  case,  however,  it  was  certainly  Sweet- 
heart who  made  the  advance.  She  was  younger 
then,  and  success  had  not  yet  made  her  shy. 

But  she  oave  the  o-ood  man  warnincr  of  her 
intentions — which,  however,  were  strictl)-  hon- 
ourable. 

"  I  think  I  am  froinof  to  love  vou,"  she  said. 

Whereupon  my  friend  Dignus,  somewhat 
flattered,  said  modestly : 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  Sweetheart.  But  I 
am  married,  don't  you  know?" 

A  saying  which  Sweetheart  did  not  appear  to 
notice  at  the  time,  but  afterward  she  showed 
that  she  had  heard  and  remembered  it, 

"  He  need  not  have  mentioned  about  being 
married  just  then,"  she  said.  "  It  was  not  nice 
of  him." 

But  for  all  that  Sweetheart  was  true  to  her 
proffer  of  friendship.  Indeed,  her  heart  is 
remarkably  capacious.  And  the  fact  that  she 
already  loves  a  hundred  is  no  reason  wh\-  she 
should  not  love  a  hundred  and  one — that  is.  if 
due  cause  be  shown. 


146  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

Once  upon  a  time,  in  the  absence  of  her 
parents,  Sweetheart,  proudest  of  maidens,  was 
doing  the  honours  of  the  table  all  alone  to  an 
unexpected  guest.  She  was  engaging  him  in 
conversation.  ("  Combesation  "  is  Sweetheart's 
form,  and  a  very  good  one,  too.) 

"  What  is  that  gentleman  ?"  asked  the  guest, 
pointing  to  a  portrait  on  the  ledge  of  a  bookcase. 

"  That  ?"  said  Sweetheart.  "  Don't  you  know  ? 
That  is  Mr.  Dignus.  He  conies  to  see  me,  biU  he 
talks  to  father  about  his  American  copyrights^ 

Which,  when  you  think  of  it,  is  just  what  most 
visiting  lovers  do.  They  come  to  see  the  maid, 
But  they  talk  to  the  parent  about  American 
copyright. 

And  they  think  that  the  parent  gull  does  not 
see  throuQ^h  the  subterfuo^e.  What  ostriches 
these  lovers  be  ! 


.-3^ 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


THE    PHILANTHROPY    OF    BIRDNESTING. 

WEETHEART  and  I  sometimes 
go  a-birdnesting.  W'c  do  this 
purely  from  motives  of  philan- 
thropy. Sweetheart,  you  see, 
wishes  to  save  the  poor  birds 
from  the  hardshij)  of  bringing  up 
too  laroe  families.  So  we  alwavs 
take  one  eeof  if  there  are  four,  but  two  if  the 
improvident  and  reckless  parents  have  arranged 
for  more  than  that  number. 

Yet  Sweetheart  and  I  share  the  lot  of  many 
other  more  worthy  benefactors  of  the  race.  We 
have   never  yet  been  thanked   as  we  deserve  for 

147 


148  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

our  unselfish  interest.  For  instance,  no  further 
gone  than  to-day,  a  blackbird  stood  on  a  bough 
and  used  quite  improper  language  to  us,  when 
we  interfered  with  his  domestic  arrangements 
entirely  for  his  own  benefit.  He  wholly  declined 
to  see  it,  and  most  obstinately  and  stupidly  con- 
tinued to  assert  that  a  blackbird's  nest  was  his 
castle — a  perfectly  absurd  contention.  Has  a 
blackbird  rights  ?  Can  he  exercise  the  franchise  ? 
Does  he  get  drunk  on  election  day  ?     Go  to  ! 

"  How  would  you  like  it  yourself?"  he  said. 

Now,  we  admit  that  this  was  rather  a  home- 
thrust  on  the  blackbird's  part,  but  Sweetheart 
did  not  mind.  She  said  that  he  could  come  and 
take  her  third-best  dolly — and  welcome — the 
one  with  only  one  limb  out  of  four  and  with  the 
back  of  its  head  caved  in.  A  fair  exchange  is 
no  limited  company. 

Upon  which  the  blackbird  retorted  that  we 
always  took  his  best  ^^'g,  and  asked  us  why  we 
would  not  be  content  with  the  broken  one  which 
he  had  shoved  over  the  side. 

But  Sweetheart  very  soon  disposed  of  him. 
She  threatened  that  we  would  tell  three  school- 
boys of  our  acquaintance  about  his  nest  if  he  did 
not  hold  his  toneue. 


THE   PHILANTHROPY   OF  BIKDNESTING.         H9 

That  very  quickly  made  him  humble,  I  can 
tell  you.  And  lie  not  only  asked  our  pardons 
(thoug-h  he  was  perfectly  in  the  right),  but  in 
addition  he  promised  to  come  and  sing  in  the 
laurels  outside  our  windows  every  morning  from 
seven  to  eight — a  promise  which  I  am  bound  to 
say  he  has  most  thoroughly  and  conscientiously 
kept. 

It  is  nice  to  awake  in  the  mornino-  and  hear 
him  at  it  in  the  earliest  dawn.  His  mellow, 
seductive  notes  thrill  deep  down  into  us  through 
the  mists  of  sleep,  and  tell  us  what  a  fine  morn- 
ing it  is  to  be  out  and  about.  And  so  it  is,  no 
doubt,  when  one  is  up.  It  is  the  intermediate 
processes  which  are  disagreeable. 

"  It  is  a  strange  thing,"  says  Sweetheart  mus- 
ingly, "  that  one  has  to  do  the  most  unpleasant 
thing  in  the  dayyf;\s7/" 

"And  what  might  that  be,  Sweetheart?"  I 
ask. 

"Get  up!"  says  she — with,  I  admit,  a  good 
deal  of  truth  and  [xunt. 

There  is  but  one  correct  way  of  getting  up — 
that  is,  not  to  stand  u}K)n  the  order  of  your  get- 
ting— but  to  get. 

He  who  hesitates  is  lost.      I  am  not  speaking 


150  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

to  women,  for  they  never  get  up  till  they  cannot 
possibly  help  it. 

One's  head  seems  scarcely  to  have  reached 
the  pillow  a  single  moment,  when  "  Chirr-r-r-r-r  !" 
like  an  angry  rattlesnake  off  goes  the  alarm, 
apparently  under  one's  ear.  It  is  a  critical 
moment. 

"  What  a  fool  I  was  to  set  that  thing  last 
night,"  we  say.  "  I  wish  it  would  quit  making 
that  horrid  racket." 

It  does  stop  at  last,  and  the  silence  comes  like 
a  porous  plaster  to  heal  the  wounds  of  sound,  as 
somebody  said.     Or  words  to  that  effect. 

The  supreme  moment  has  come.  In  thirty 
pulse-beats  you  will  be  asleep  again  if  you  are 
not  upon  your  feet.  And  if  you  succumb,  in  a 
morning  or  two  the  loudest  and  longest  alarm 
will  awake  you  no  more.  At  best  it  will  only 
punctuate  the  night  with  a  reminder  that  it  is 
three  or  four  hours  before  you  require  to  get  up. 

However,  all  this  is  beside  the  question.  We 
two  a7'e  up  and  going  out  for  a  spring  ramble, 
that  is.  Sweetheart  and  I.  The  trees  are  not 
very  far  advanced,  even  yet,  on  these  mountain 
slopes.  Only  the  catkins  of  the  alder  and  the 
bloom    of    the  sloe   thorn  give   promise  of  the 


.1,  I  V 


"WHY    DOES   HE   NOT    SETTLE   DOWN   TO    HOUSEKEEP  ? " 


THE  PHILANTHROPY  OF  BIRDNESTING.         I53 

thousand  blossoming;  bushes  of  a  month  licnce. 
The  wincUlower  and  the  celandine  are  all  the 
flowers  that  one  can  find  by  the  bankside.  Ah, 
no  !  that  was  too  hasty  a  saying.  Here  is  the 
sweet  violet — that  precious  flower  of  a  good 
smell. 

"Listen,  Sweetheart,"  I  say.  "Can  you  tell 
me  \vhat  is  that  we  hear?" 

"It  is  the  snipe!  "cries  Sweetheart  happily. 
For  the  bird,  drumming  far  away  by  itself  on 
the  moorlands,  always  touches  our  hearts  with  a 
vague,  mysterious  thrill.  The  melancholy  whim- 
perings grow  nearer  to  us.  But  not  until  we 
are  fairly  out  on  the  open  moor  can  we  see  the 
quiver  of  the  stoop  as  the  bird  pauses  in  his 
whirlino-s  in  the  far  field  of  blue. 

The  wdiaup  sweeps  wailing  and  "  zvilly-icJia- 
ing'''  across  the  brae  face  on  his  way  to  the 
marshy  hollow  where  his  nest  is  to  be.  A 
myriad  of  small  birds  are  flitting  and  twittering. 
A  white-flecked  wheatear  junkets  about,  flying 
here  and  there  in  his  peculiarly  aimless  and 
casual  way. 

"  Why  does  he  not  settle  down  to  house- 
keep?"  says  Sweetheart,  whose  tendencies  just 
now  are  markedl)-  domestic.      She   has  eighteen 


154  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

of  a  family  herself,  and  is  thinking  of  nineteen  as 
soon  as  she  can  raise  a  sixpence  for  a  very  fasci- 
nating kilted  boy  in  a  window.  "  And  lay  eggs," 
she  continues.     "  I  want  two  wheatear's  eggs." 

But  strangely  the  wheatear  does  not  agree. 
He  is  a  bird  without  serious  convictions — prob- 
ably a  Malthusian  or  Anarchist  of  some  kind. 
The  willow  wren,  on  the  contrary,  is  already 
busy  constructing  his  nest,  and  has  entered 
on  the  happy  condition  of  double  blessedness 
which  he  has  been  anticipating  ever  since,  five 
days  ago,  he  was  pecking  insects  on  a  North 
African  palm,  and  saying,  "  It  is  getting  a  great 
deal  too  hot  down  here  ! " 

So  he  started,  and  after  many  perils  he  found 
himself  on  this  dwarf  thorn,  where,  remember- 
ing Africa,  he  shivers  in  the  cutting  keenness  of 
our  April  wind. 

But  he  is  a  delightsome  little  chap,  and  never 
goes  far  from  running  water.  Sweetheart  says 
that  he  is  as  dainty  and  chipper  as  if  he  were 
a  cage  bird  and  fed  on  hempseed.  He  is,  to 
speak  in  the  American  language,  the  cunning- 
est  of  birds. 

And  his  fairy  flute  of  a  song — is  it  not  sweet 
beyond  telling? 


THE   PHILANTHROPY   OF  BIRDNESTING.         155 

Listen,  Sweetheart,  again,  to  what  he  is 
saying- : 

"  Dididay-deiiy ,  what  can  I  sady  ? 
Indeed  I  atn  gay  ! 
Far  aivay-iiy  I  did  stay,  now  I'll  stop  if  I  inay-ay  / 
Dididay,  dedy,  dudy-day  !  didide-dedy  / 
I'll  not  get  in  yottr  way-elty. 
Please  don't  send  me  away-edy." 

"What  a  nice  dear  he  is!"  says  Sweetheart, 
who  approves  of  poHte  hirds.  "Not  a  bit  hke 
the  nasty  jay,  who  is  only  a  vulgar  boy  for  all 
his  fine  coat,  and  calls  '  Yali-yah  !'  after  \()u  out 
of  the  bushes.  But  the  willow  wren  is  a  nice 
bird.  I  shall  only  take  one  of  his  eggs — unless 
he  has  quite  a  lot !  " 

So  you  see  tliis  is  what  it  is  to  be  polite. 
Be  virtuous,  obligiiig",  always  subscribe  to  every 
pass-book  that  comes  to  the  door,  and  the 
philanthropist  will  not  take  all  your  money — 
unless  you  happen  to  have  quite  a  lot. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


THE    MAGIC    OF    THE    RAIN. 


WET  day  has  a  fascination  for 
me.  Tap  !  tap  !  come  the  stray 
■  I  triangles  of  the  ivy  leaves  upon 
the  study  window.  The  wind 
drives  a  scatter  of  rain-drops  on 
the  pane,  spreading  broad  and 
flat  like  spent  bullets  on  a  target.  Then  what 
a  fine  heartsome  roar  there  is  in  the  wide 
chimney.  There  is  truly  enough  and  to  spare 
to  do  indoors.  Yet  Sweetheart  and  I  cannot, 
for  the  life  of  us,  stop  thinking  of  the  way  the 
branches  of  the  trees  are  wheezing   and  creak- 

156 


THE   MAGIC  OF    THE   RAIX. 


157 


ing  against  each  other  out  there  in  the  storm- 
tossed  woods.  And  with  the  thouglit  restless- 
ness orows  in  the  blood. 


WE   LOOK    OUT   OF   THE   WINDOW. 


We  get  lip  and  look  out  of  the  window. 
Over  the  orav  Pentland  side  the  mist  is  driving. 
Across  the  lift  the  clouds  are  scourinor,  chanore- 


158  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

ful  and  swift.  The  rain  comes  in  furious 
dashes,  and  a  blue  blink  looks  momently 
through  between.  A  white  herring-gull  wafts 
himself  composedly  athwart  my  field  of  vision. 
By  way  of  imitation  a  rook  tries  vainly  to  fan 
his  w^ay  across  the  hurl  of  the  tempest,  but, 
failing  midway,  he  is  blown  heels  over  head 
down  the  sky,  a  ragged  and  bewildered  tatter- 
demalion. But  a  starling  projects  himself  suc- 
cessfully from  the  pinnacle  of  the  church,  like 
a  flat-headed  Government  "broad  arrow"  with- 
out any  shaft.  And  with  no  difficulty  whatever 
he  transits  the  window  of  my  observatory  with 
swift,  jerky  undulations  right  in  the  teeth  of  the 
wind. 

It  is  too  much  for  mortal  to  stand.  "Take 
the  cash  and  let  the  credit  go,"  sayeth  great 
Omar  Khayyam  of  Naishapur.  Such  a  day  as 
this  may  not  come  hastily  again. 

Booted  and  cloaked  I  stand  ready,  and  pres- 
ently Sweetheart  trips  downstairs  huddled  in 
waterproofs,  good  advices  and  cautions  shower- 
ing after  her,  as  to  the  conduct  of  our  walk  and 
conversation  and  the  care  of  her  feet  outside. 
The  degree  of  sanity  possessed  by  certain  per- 
sons who  cannot  remain  comfortably  by  a  fire  on 


THE   MAGIC  OF    THE  RAIN.  1 59 

such  a  day  is  also  slightingly  dwelt  upon  by  an 
unseen   orator  somewhere  hioh  over  our  heads. 

o 

But  we  are  not  much  interested,  thouLfh  we 
listen  dutifully  enough.  It  is  astonishing  how 
many  points  of  view  there  are  in  the  world. 

For  instance,  Sweetheart  thinks  that  it  is 
jolly  to  be  out  in  the  rain.  And  that  for  many 
reasons.  First  of  all,  because  you  can  catch 
the  rain-drop  which  distils  from  the  end  cf  )our 
nose  upon  your  outstretched  tongue.  Sweet- 
heart stands  still  for  a  moment  while  she  illus- 
trates the  ease  with  which  this  notable  feat  can 
be  performed.  Now  you  cannot  possibly  do 
this  upon  an  ordinary  day.  Again,  it  is  jolly 
to  come  out  in  the  rain,  because  you  have  not 
to  pick  your  way  among  the  puddles.  And  for 
an  excellent  reason.      It   is   all   puddle  together. 

There  is  but  one  slight  drawback.  The  wind 
blow^s  the  small  maid's  hair  all  about  her  eyes, 
making  in  the  meantime  a  picture  of  wind- 
tossed  oold  tanoled  above  a  scarlet  cloak.  But 
Sweetheart  fears  that  the  result  will  be  "dread- 
fully tuggy  "  when  it  comes  bedtime.  But  bed- 
time is  far  away,  and,  as  soon  as  we  are  really 
in  the  woods,  the  fears  of  the  future  and  of  the 
stern  comb  of  ruthless  Fate  are  alike  for^rotten. 


i6o  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

There  is  a  rook  upon  the  pinnacle  of  the 
church.  Sweetheart  says  that  there  is  always 
one  there.  I  assert  hastily  that  she  means  a 
jackdaw.  But  she  does  not,  as  it  appears.  For 
this  particular  rook  dwells  in  patriarchal  ease 
among  a  colony  of  jacks,  having  probably 
been  expatriated  from  his  own  community  for 
reasons  into  which  it  is  better  not  to  enter.  In 
fact,  we  may  say,  without  fear  of  an  action  for 
libel,  that  he  left  his  country  for  his  country's 
good.  Whether  Mr.  Rook  dwells  in  the  jack- 
daws' country  for  his  own  good  or  theirs  is 
a  still  unsolved  problem.  Sweetheart  thinks 
that  a  rook  upon  a  church  tower  is  somehow 
in  keeping  with  the  ecclesiastical  surroundings. 
For,  by  a  simple  association  of  ideas,  she  asks 
next  why  clergymen  always  dress  in  black. 

"What  else  could  they  dress  in?"  I  reply, 
thinking  a  simple  and  Socratic  method  the 
safest. 

Sweetheart  does  not  know,  because  the  idea 
of  a  clergyman  arrayed  in  any  other  colour 
than  black  has  not  yet  dawned  upon  her  mind. 

"  Do  you  know,  father,  how  I  should  know 
an  angel  from  a  clergyman,  if  one  of  them 
should    come    to    see    me.'*" 


THE   MAGIC  OF    THE   RAIN.  if)i 

I  reply  that,  as  she  lias  not  yet  informed  me 
of  her  method  of  making  the  distinction,  I  cer- 
tainly cannot  guess.. 

"  Well,"  says  Sweetheart,  "  the  way  I  should 
know  is  this.  An  anoel  would  be  dressed  in 
white  and  have  wings.  A  clergyman  would  be 
dressed  in  black  and  have  an  unibrella." 

Our  practical  Sweetheart  does  not  mean  to 
entertain  any  angels  unawares  if  she  can  help 
it.  She  means  to  know  it,  and  full)-  to  occupy 
her  visitors'  time  in  answering  questions.  For 
there  are  many  things  which  she  exceedingly 
desires  to  find  out — as,  for  instance,  whether 
dolls  go  to  heaven.  And  if  the  little  children 
there  sometimes  get  out  to  play,  or  only  have 
to  stop  in  church  all  da)".  Then,  upon  the 
information  received,  she  means  to  settle  the 
question   as   to  the  place   she  wants   to  go   to. 

A  very  good  lad)'  approached  Sweetheart  the 
other  da)',  and  claimed  the  reluctantly  perfunc- 
tory and  strictly  ceremonial  kiss  which  Sweet- 
heart keeps  for  such  occasions. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  to  heaven,  Sweet- 
heart ? "  she  asked,  with  the  comfortable,  purr- 
ing affection  characteristic  of  certain  dear  old 
ladies. 


l62  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

"Yes,  indeed!"  said  Sweetheart  instantly, 
and  with   considerable  emphasis. 

Our  good  old  friend  was  much  pleased,  and 
so  (at  the  moment)  were  we.  It  is  gratifying 
to  have  one's  family  brought  up  to  express  so 
readily  such  very  corre<:t  and  orthodox  aspira- 
tions. But  the  querist  ought  to  have  let  well 
alone.  She  should  not  have  asked  Sweetheart 
for  a  reason,  but  rested  content  with  the  fact. 
Yet  this  is  just  what  she  proceeded  to  do. 

"  And  won't  you  tell  me  ivhy  you  would  like 
to  go  to  heaven  ?  "  she  said  sweetly. 

Sweetheart  was  nothing  loath,  in  spite  of  the 
frowns  of  her  well-wishers. 

"  Why,  because  there  is  no  night  there,"  she 
replied  briskly. 

"  And  why  because  there  is  no  night.  Sweet- 
heart?" persisted  our  friend. 

"  Because,"  said  Sweetheart  earnestly,  "  there 
would  be  nobody  to  say,  'It's  bedtime!'  right 
in  the  middle  of  sitting  up  in  the  drawing- 
room  !  " 

Then  there  fell  a  great  silence,  and  vSweet- 
heart  was  asked  no  more  questions.  But  we 
felt  distinctly  rebuked,  for  the  lack  of  capable 
instruction    was    manifest.       But     then     Sweet- 


THE   MAGIC  OF    THE   RAIN.  163 

heart's  views  on  cschatology  arc  \vholl\-  original, 
and  her  tendencies  are  distinctly  rationalistic — 
in  so  far,  at  least,  that  she  must  always  have  a 
reason  for  every  fact  supplied  for  her  absorption 
and  belief.  Our  only  consolation  is  that  any 
sort  of  a  reason  will  do.  Indeed,  she  is  as 
credulous  as  a  biologist. 

But  the  rain  sprays  refreshingly  on  our  faces 
as  we  enter  tlie  woods  and  begin  to  tread  on 
the  pine  cones  and  elastic  fir  needles.  These 
make  a  delightful  carpet  for  our  feet,  infinitely 
cleaner  and  drier  than  the  muddy  roads  we  have 
left  behind.  The  trees  are  dripping  with  wet, 
of  course,  and  shining  drops  are  blowing  from 
every  bud  and  knot.  Long  pendent  sprays 
whip  the  air  and  sprinkle  us  as  we  pass. 
Lucent  pearls  glance  off  our  waterproofs.  The 
sky  above  is  perpetually  brightening  and  paling. 
It  is  an  April  day  which  has  somehow  lost  its 
way  in  mid-February. 

From  under  a  splendid  umbrella-like  spruce 
we  look  down  into  the  whirlpool  of  shifting 
vapour  whicli  fills  the  deep  glen.  The  dark 
green  of  every  fir-tree  is  surrounded  with  a 
violet  haze,  sometimes  deepening  into  purple, 
sometimes    paling    into    lilac.      Anon    drifts    of 


1 64  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

grayish-white  misty  rain  make  all  the  landscape 
glamourous,  as  though  we  were  seeing  it  through 
a  translucent  veil.  Again  of  a  sudden  the  sun 
shines  out,  and  the  red,  wet  boles  of  the  Scotch 
firs  shine  like  pillars  of  crimson  fire. 

The  larger  birds  are  busy  in  the  spacious 
open-air  ball-room  beneath  us.  Here  is  our  sea- 
gull waltzing  and  balancing  all  by  himself — as  if 
he  were  practising  his  steps,  Sweetheart  says. 
A  wood-pigeon  blunders  across  the  glen  with 
prodigious  fuss  and  bluster.  He  pretends  some- 
thing is  after  him,  but  his  terror  is  most  obvi- 
ously assumed. 

Sweetheart  and  I  stand  and  listen  to  the 
varied  noises  the  wind  makes,  and  try  to  find 
out  the  reason  of  each  sound.  First  there  is  the 
great,  resonant  roar  of  the  storm  in  the  nearer 
high  trees  over  our  heads.  Then  there  is  a 
more  fitful  sough,  as  the  sucking  swirls  and 
reverse  currents  blow  about  the  underbrush  on 
the  sides  of  the  ravine.  And,  last  of  all,  mak- 
ing one  clear,  sustained  note,  which  sounds  high 
above  both  of  these,  there  is  the  steady  scream 
of  the  storm,  as  it  presses  northward  up  the 
long  glen,  hurtling  unweariedly  toward  the 
Pole. 


THE   MAGIC  OF    THE   A'ALV.  165 

But  now  we  must  turn  us  homeward.  It  is 
sad,  indeed.  But,  after  all,  there  are  such  things 
as  colds,  and  the  consequences  would  be  un- 
utterable if,  even  in  the  interests  of  science  on 
a  rainy  day,  we  were  to  take  home  one  of  these 
between  us. 

"  I  like  so  much  to  come  out  with  you," 
observes  Sweetheart,  with  the  instinct  of  her  sex 
— "because  you  never  say  '  \'ou  mustn't!'  at 
the  nice  places.  Nor  '  You're  going  to  get 
your  boots  wet!'    at   the  dear   little   pools!" 

I  was,  in  fact,  upon  the  point  of  making  the 
latter  remark  at  that  moment.  But  in  face  of 
such  sweet  llatler\-,  how  could  ilie  thing  be 
done  ?  I  leave  it  to  the  reader  who  has  been 
similarly  situated. 

"  Do  you  know,  I  think  it's  very  kind  of  you 
to  take  me  out  walking  with  you,  father,"  is  the 
next  statement — also  made  in  the  interests  of 
the  future. 

I  disclaim  an\-  [)articular  kindness  in  the 
matter,  except  to  myself. 

"  Have  I  been  a  good  'panion  to  you,  father.-'" 
is  th(^  next  link  in  the  chain  which  I  feel  weav- 
ino-  about  me.  But  I  have  to  admit  the  fact  or 
perjure  myself. 


l66  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

"  And  not  been  a  dreadful  trouble  to  you  ? " 

This  pathetically,  and  thrusting  a  small  hand 
into  mine.  Which  also  being  satisfactorily 
answered,  I   feel  that  the  point  is  coming  now. 

"  Then,"  says  Sweetheart,  "  can  I  have  tea  in 
the  dining-room  to-night,  stop  up  till  eight 
o'clock,  and  come  out  walking  with  you  again 
to-morrow  ?  " 

As  I  have  several  times  remarked,  there  are 
distinct  reasons  for  believing  that  our  Sweet- 
heart is  in  the  direct  line  of  descent  from  Eve, 
the  wife  of  one  Adam,  who  kept  a  garden  some 
time  ago. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS    IN    WINTER    WOOD- 
LAND. 

S  you  may  see,  she  is  not  a 
Sweetheart  only  for  the  sum- 
mer-time, this  of  mine.  Now 
that  she  is  grown  up  (four 
years  and  six  months  is 
quite  grown  up  for  a  Sweet- 
heart), she  and  I  go  a-walking  even  in  tlie  time  of 
frost  and  snow.  We  have  received,  in  fact,  a 
roving  commission  to  inquire  into  the  condition 
of  the  furred  and  feathered  unemployed,  into 
the  housing  of  tlie  out-of-doors  poor,  and  into 
various  other  thincr.s.  We  are  also  interested  in 
the  problem   how   the  birds  and  beasts   of  the 

167 


i68  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

fields  and  woodlands  eat  and  sleep  during  this 
black  and  bitter  winter  weather.  And  very 
specially  we  try  to  find  out  how,  in  this  time  of 
coal  dearth,  they  manage  to  obtain  fuel  to  keep 
the  fires  burning  in  their  brave  little  hearts. 

We  have  it  on  good  authority  that  God 
thinketh  on  these.  But  as  no  one  else  seems 
to  think  on  them  much,  at  least  in  our  nei^h- 
bourhood,  Sweetheart  and  I  humbly  take  the 
matter  in  hand.  There  are  many  feathered 
pensioners  on  Sweetheart's  bounty,  and  yet  not 
a  word  of  pauperising  do  we  hear.  Even  the 
Charity  Organisation  Society  does  not  interfere. 
Only  the  great  black  rook,  who  eats  everything, 
grumbles,  "  Why  was  so  much  good  crow's  meat 
cut  up  into  little  bits  and  given  to  the  poor?" 
By  which  he  means  the  tits,  sparrows,  thrushes, 
blackbirds,  robins,  and  wrens  who  most  do  con- 
gregate about,  and  wait  with  fluffed  feathers  for 
Sweetheart's  bounty. 

As  she  and  I  go  toward  the  woods  the  snow 
is  crisp  with  frost  and  whistles  beneath  our  feet. 
There  is  a  sharpness  also  about  our  faces  as  if 
Jack  Frost  had  been  sharpening  the  end  of  our 
noses  at  his  orindstone — as  indeed  he  has. 

First  we  ofo  throuoh  a  little  woodland  ravine. 


AV    WIXTER    WOODLAXDS.  169 

It  is  almost  waist-deep  in  fallen  leaves.  Here 
the  mighty  beeches,  in  all  their  plcntitiide  of 
foliage,  have  stood  for  ages  on  the  slopes  above. 
And  in  this  place  all  the  summer  you  can  listen 
to  the  noise  of  their  rustling  branches.  Now 
they  are  bare  and  stark.  But  the  winds  have 
swept  all  their  russet  and  orange  leaves  into  this 
narrow  defde.  Some  few,  perhaps,  have  sped 
over  the  boundary  wall.  But  for  the  most  part 
here  they  lie,  and  now  they  crunch  shari)ly 
under  the  feet  with  a  pleasant  sound.  The)- are 
matted  together  on  the  surface  with  frost,  but 
underneath  is  a  whole  underground  world  of 
dormant  living  things  which  we  must  explore 
some  day. 

But  it  is  not  until  we  get  fairly  into  the  woods, 
and  leave  the  shallow  frozen  snow  of  the  fields 
behind  us,  that  we  see  any  signs  of  life.  The 
silence  of  these  winter  woods  is  their  main 
characteristic.  But  that  is  chiefiy  owing  to  the 
observer.  It  strikes  the  wayfarer,  tramping 
along  at  a  good  steady  policeman's  pace  to  keep 
himself  warm,  that  there  is  not  a  single  sign  of 
life  in  all  the  frosty  woodlands.  And  this 
is  natural.  For  sylvan  eyes  and  ears  are 
exceedingly  acute. 


17°  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

The  Stamp  of  a  leather-shod  foot  can  be  heard 
many  hundreds  of  yards.  Then,  at  once,  every 
bird  and  beast  witliin  the  radius  stands  at  atten- 
tion, to  judge  of  the  direction  of  the  noise. 
Crack  goes  another  rotten  branch.  In  a  second 
all  the  woodland  folk  are  in  their  holes,  in  the 
deepest  shrubberies,  or  in  the  upper  branches  of 
the  trees.  The  twang  of  the  broken  twig  tells 
them  that  the  intruder  is  off  the  beaten  path, 
and  is  therefore  probably  a  dangerous  intruder. 
At  the  best,  after  no  good. 

But  Sweetheart  and  I  are  warmly  wrapped 
up.  So  we  can  crouch  and  watch  in  the  lee  of 
a  dyke,  or  stand  wrapped  in  one  great  cloak 
behind  a  tree  trunk.  It  is  not  much  good  to  go 
abroad  at  noon.  In  the  morning,  when  the  birds 
are  at  their  breakfast,  is  the  time.  Or  better 
still,  in  the  early  afternoon  when  the  low,  red 
sun  has  yet  about  an  hour  and  a  half  to  travel — 
that  is  the  time  to  call  upon  the  bird  folk  in  the 
winter  season.  They  are  busy,  and  have  less 
time  to  give  to  tbeir  suspicions. 

"  The  sun  is  like  one  big  cherry,"  says 
Sweetheart,  suddenly  looking  up  between 
the  boughs  ;  "like  one  big  cherry  in  streaky 
jelly." 


"THE   SILENCE   OF    THESE   WINTER    WOODS. 


IN    WINTER    WOODLANDS.  173 

And  it  is  SO  precisely.  He  lies  low  clown  in 
the  soLilh  in  a  ruby  haze  of  winter  frost.  The 
reflections  on  the  snow  are  red  also,  and  the 
shadows  purple.  The  glare  of  the  morning's 
staring  white  and  blue  is  taken  off  by  the  level 
beams.  Snow  certainly  does  not  help  the  colour 
of  a  landscape.  Sweetheart  has  something  to 
say  on  this  subject  : 

"  Father,  I  thought  the  first  day  that  the;  snow 
was  prettier,  but  then  it  keeps  us  from  seeing  a 
great  many  pretty  things." 

Never  mind,  Sweetheart.  It  will  also  let  us 
see  a  sufficient  number  of  pretty  things,  if  we 
only  wait  and  look  closely  enough.  But  it  is 
ccrtainlv  true  that  the  crlare  of  the  snow  does 
reduce  most  of  the  delicate  tints  of  the  landscape 
to  the  uniform  black  and  white  of  a  monrninof 
attire.  Imu'  instance,  the  dainty,  low-toned  lilac 
of  the  tree  branches  is  killed,  just  because  there 
is  a  strip  of  snow  along  each  branch  toward  the 
eastern  side,  the  direction  from  which  the  snow- 
storm came.  But  as  a  compensation  there  is 
brilliant  colour  above  our  heads.  The  cherry* 
coloured  sun,  shining  on  the  boles  of  the  Scotch 
firs  in  the  plantation,  turns  them  into  red  gold, 
and  causes  their  crooked  branches   to  stand   out 


174 


SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 


against  the  dull  indigo  sky  like  veins  of  white- 
hot  metal. 

But  look  down,  Sweetheart — see  the  traeks  on 
the  snow.     Can  you  tell  me  what  all  these  are  ? 


HE   HAS   BEEN   CARRYING   ONE   FOOT  OFF   THE   GROUND. 


There  is  the  broad-spurred  arrow  of  that  black 
vagrant,  Mr.  Rook,  who  is  everywhere.  We 
need  not  mind  him.  See,  a  little  further  on,  the 
regular  lopings  of  the  rabbits  as  they  cross  the 
beaten  path  down  from  the  bank,  and  go   into 


IN    WINTER    WOODLANDS.  175 

the  hedgerows  for  tender  shoots  and  leaf-pro- 
tected grasses.  Here  they  have  been  nibbhng 
at  the  leaves  themselves — even  at  the  laurel 
leaves,  which  surely  must  be  an  acquired  taste, 
and  must  mark  a  particularly  decadent  bunny. 
Here  is  a  hare's  track — a  wounded  one,  too. 
See,  he  has  been  carrying  one  foot  off  the 
ground.  Only  here  and  there  do  we  see  where 
it  has  just  skimmed  the  snow.  His  trail  goes 
dot  and  dash  like  a  Morse  teleoram.  Sweet- 
heart  does  not  know  what  that  is,  but  she  is 
brimming  over  with  pity  for  the  poor  lame  hare. 
Would  it  not  be  possible  to  find  him  and  get  his 
poor  foot  tied  up,  like  the  robin  redbreast  of 
precious  memory,  whose  wounded  leg  we  once 
doctored  and  healed  ? 

Ah,  I  reply,  but  this  is  quite  a  different  mat- 
ter. You  see,  Mr,  Hare  unfortunately  omitted 
to  leave  his  card  in  passing.  We  really  do  not 
know  where  he  lives,  and  besides,  even  if  we  did, 
it  is  hardly  likely  that  we  could  catch  him.  For 
he  would  run  a  great  deal  faster  on  three  legs, 
even  with  a  spare  one  to  carry,  than  Sweetheart 
and  I  on  our  whole  equipment  of  four  between  us. 
Sweetheart  thkiks,  with  a  sioh  that  this  most 
fascinating"  ambulance  work  must  be  given  up. 


176  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

Yet  it  is  a  pity.  A  wounded  and  grateful 
hare,  coming  to  the  back  door  every  morning 
with  a  bandaged  foot  in  the  air,  would  just  fill 
her  cup  of  joy  to  the  brim.  But  I  remind  her 
that  there  are  two  dogs  at  the  back  door,  and 
that  it  is  possible  that  they  might  receive  the 
visitor  with  quite  another  sort  of  gratitude. 
Why,  oh  why  (thinks  the  little  maid),  will  things 
turn  out  so  contrary  ? 

But  here  is  the  place  where  we  must  turn  off 
the  path  and  go  softly  down  into  the  thicker 
woods.  Let  us  watch  our  feet  carefully,  and 
tread  on  no  brittle  branches.  For  the  birds  will 
surely  hear,  and  then  we  may  say  good-bye  to 
our  chance  of  seeing  them.  Presently  we  are 
behind  the  giant  bole  of  a  beech,  whose  tender 
gray  satin  skin  gives  a  dainty  and  ladylike 
expression  to  its  winter  beauty. 

Now,  wrapped  closely  in  our  one  cloak,  and 
with  the  pair  of  field-glasses  ready  in  hand,  we 
abide  warm  and  eager.  There  are  birds  all 
about  us.     We  can  hear  them. 

''See — see — seej'  froni  above,  ''Chip — chip'' 
from  somewhere  underground.  Sweetheart's 
quick  eye  catches  the  flash  of  the  first  bird. 
She    points  with    an    eager  finger    through  the 


/X    WINTER    WOODLANDS.  177 

folds  of  the  cloak,  anrl  looks  up  to  me  with 
a  hushed  and  awe-struck  face.  "  Oxeye  !  "  she 
whispers. 

Oxeye  it  is — the  great  tit,  with  his  yellow 
breast  flashing  like  a  lemon-coloured  sunbeam, 
and    above    it    his    bold    black-and-white    head. 

How  he  darts  and  dashes  I  Now  he  is  lost  to 
view,  now  he  is  out  again.  He  has  a  bit  of  bark 
in  his  bill,  and  he  shakes  it  furiously,  as  a  terrier 
shakes  a  rat.  He  puts  his  foot  on  it,  and  tears 
at  it  just  as  Sweetheart  once  saw  an  eagle  do  at 
a  dead  rabbit,  in  those  unforgotten  (Zoological) 
gardens  of  delight  from  which,  a  very  reluctant 
Eve,  she  was  only  expelled,  still  protesting,  by 
the  stern  guardian  at  closing  time. 

We  stand  breathlessly  silent.  This  Oxeye  has 
enough  energy  in  him  to  decimate  a  countryside. 
If  he  were  only  as  big  as  a  horse  he  would  not 
leave  man,  woman,  or  child  alive  between  Pent- 
land  and  Solway.  As  it  is,  he  makes  it  hot 
indeed  for  the  bark-boring  beetles.  Tap,  tap — 
shake,  shake,  he  goes.  And  out  tumbles  from 
a  hole  in  the  bark  a  wicked  little  gentleman, 
Scohtus  the  Destroyer  by  name,  a  ver\'  Attila 
of  beetles.  He  looks  exactly  as  if  he  were  the 
business  end  of  a  much   bigger  beetle  chopped 


178  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

off  short.  Or,  as  Sweetheart  more  descriptively 
says,  "  lilve  an  engine  without  the  tender." 
Oxeye  winks,  and  there  is  an  end  of  Scolytus. 
But  the  victor  is  at  it  again.  He  is  up  on  the 
elm,  clinging  head  down,  exactly  like  a  Creeper, 
though  he  does  not  run  so  quickly  up  the  trunk 
as  that  darling  little  bird.  But  what  he  does  is 
walk  round  the  trunk  till  he  finds  something  to 
suit  him,  and  then  he  has  it  down  on  the  ground 
in  a  moment  to  inquire  into  its  nature. 

But  oJiiefly  Oxeye  delights  in  poking  among 
the  tangled  debris  of  rotten  branches  thrown 
down  by  the  great  storm  of  1884.  Do  you 
remember  that,  Sweetheart  ?  No  ;  how  stupid 
of  me  ;  how  can  you  possibly  remember?  Dear 
me,  that  was  just  eight  years  ago,  in  the  Krakatoa 
year.  How  time  speeds,  and  we  stand  still  and 
forget !  That  was  nearly  four  years  before 
Sweetheart  was  born  ! 

"  Where  was  /  then  ?  "  whispers  Sweetheart 
eagerly.  '^ 

But  I  hastily  point  her  again  to  the  Oxeye, 
for  Sweetheart's  metaphysical  mind  in  pursuit  of 
a  solution  to  such  a  question  has  greater  terrors 
than  the  stiffest  pass  examination.  Luckily  there 
are   several   Oxe^^es    now,   and  they  are  giving 


nV    WINTER    WOODLANDS.  1 79 

Scolytus  the  Destroyer  and  all  his  clan  a  warm 
time  of  it.  Without  doubt  they  must  be  doing 
much  good  to  the  growing  trees.  Though  I  find 
that  the  gamekeepers,  ignorant  of  all  that 
does  not  strictly  concern  the  rearing  of  game, 
class  them  with  the  lesser  vermin  of  the 
woods. 

Now  there  is  a  wren  among  the  tits.  Only 
one  little  Jenny.  But  she  is  in  the  best  of 
spirits,  and,  I  grieve  to  say,  is  ready  to  flirt  with 
anybody.  She  also  is  hunting  among  the  leaves, 
and  (what  is  very  curious)  carrying  them  in  her 
bill  to  a  hollow  in  a  tree  stem,  which  is  nearly  as 
full  of  them  already  as  it  can  hold.  We  examine 
this  cavity  before  we  leave,  and  agree  that  if  . 
Jennie  nestles  in  there  at  night  she  has  none  so 
poor  a  dwelling-place,  except,  perhaps,  when  the 
wind  is  in  the  north.  Dropping  the  leaves, 
Jennie  makes  overtures  of  friendship  to  a  very 
handsome  (but  sadly  misanthropic)  Robin, 
clad  in  a  splendid  scarlet  vest,  who  is  moping 
listlessly  about,  taking  an  occasional  aimless 
peck  at  nothing,  watching  us  all  the  while  fur- 
tively with  a  sharp  and  shining  eye.  But  Robin 
is  incorruptible,  and  takes  not  the  slightest 
notice  of  her.     Whereat  Jenny  jerks  her  saucy 


i8o  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

tail,  and  says,  with  a  quite  perceptible  sniff, 
"  Mfff !  Think  you  are  somebody  great,  don't 
you  !  "  And  she  flies  off  contemptuously  to  the 
nearest  birch-tree. 

So,  all  too  soon,  it  comes  time  to  go  home. 
As  we  march  alonsf  there  are  a  thousand  thin8:s 
that  Sweetheart  wants  to  know,  and  "Whys" 
and  "But,  fathers"  hurtle  through  the  tortured 
air.  She  has  not  been  able  to  speak  for  a  whole 
hour,  and  is  therefore  well-nigh  full  to  bursting 
of  marks  of  interrogation.  On  the  whole  I  do 
as  well  as  can  be  expected,  and  receive  an 
honour  certificate. 

The  crows  also  are  going  home  to  tea,  and 
fly  clanging  and  circling  overhead,  playing  at 
"tig"  to  keep  themselves  warm.  Sweetheart 
watches  them,  cogitating  the  while.  I  point 
out  to  her  how  the  brackens,  being  thin  and 
poor  in  blood,  have  all  died  down,  brown  and 
rusty  ;  but  how  the  stronger  and  sturdier  male 
ferns  and  bucklers  still  keep  their  greenness, 
though  they  have  got  a  little  tired  standing  up, 
and  so  have  laid  themselves  down  to  sleep 
under  the  plaid  of  the  snow. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all.  Sweetheart  has  not  lost 
track  of  a  former  problem. 


LV    WINTER    WOODLANDS.  i8i 

"  But,  father,  I  want  to  know  where  I  was 
when  the  trees  fell  ten  )-ears  ago." 

Then  I  say  hurriedly:  "We  must  be  quick, 
Sweetheart.  They  will  be  waiting  for  us  at  the 
window.  Now,  would  you  like  two  lumps  of 
sugar  in  your  tea — or  three?" 

For  one  must  act  promptl)'  in  such  an 
emergency. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 


DRIPPY     DAYS. 


FTER  the  frost,  sooner  or  later 
comes  the  thaw.  The  huddled 
birds  separate.  The  snow- 
wreaths  dissipate,  as  though 
the  warm  south  wind,  blowing 
upon  them,  had  sucked  them  up 
in  its  passage.  Which,  indeed,  is  just  what  it  has 
done.  For  wind  will  not  only  blow  the  snow 
off  a  road,  but  also  the  ice.  Such  a  wind  as 
this,  whistling  up  a  country  road  on  a  January 
day,  will  soon  clear  away  the  little  ice-bound 
pools  in  the  cart-tracks,  not  by  thawing  them, 
but  simply  by  blowing  them  away. 

182 


DRIPPY  DAYS.  183 

To-day  Sweetlieart  and  I  ventured  out, 
though  it  was  still  raining  a  little.  It  is  won- 
derful upon  how  many  days  in  the  year  it  is 
possible  to  go  out  and  see  Nature,  if  only  one 
makes  a  little  preparation  before  starting.  It 
had  very  decidedly  "  come  fresh,"  as  they  say 
in  this  countryside.  But  being  booted  and 
cloaked,  the  gray  drizzle  above  does  not  daun- 
ton  us,  nor  yet  the  snaw-broo  beneath  make  us 
afraid. 

Though  it  w^as  already  afternoon  (which  in 
these  northern  latitudes  and  in  the  heart  of  the 
short  days  means  evening),  the  smaller  birds 
were  enjoying  themselves  in  the  soft  smurr  of 
rain  which  came  soughingly  from  the  south. 
They  were  no  longer  chilled  into  silence  by  the 
oppression  of  the  binding  frost. 

"  What  is  that?"  said  Sweetheart,  before  we 
had  gone  many  yards  over  the  doorstep. 

From  far  down  among  the  dripping  woods 
came  the  half-human  cry  of  the  pheasant.  He 
w^as  telling  his  mate  that  "gloomy  winter's  noo 
awa ' " — which  is  as  may  be.  At  any  rate,  he 
thought  so,  and  his  rejoicing  cry  rang  through 
the  wide  gloomy  spaces. 

"  Look  at  these  beautiful  birdies,"  said  Sweet- 


1 84  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

heart  again;  "they    are  playing    at    '  Catch-as- 
catch-can.'" 

And  indeed  it  looked  like  it.  Some  twenty 
pairs  of  yellow-hammers  were  sporting  in  the 
branches  of  a  low,  scrubby  thorn,  which  tangled 
its  branches  away  from  the  southwest,  and 
trailed  them  shapelessly  on  the  ground  like  the 
distorted  limbs  of  a  dwarf.  The  yellow-hammer 
is  not  a  bird  of  the  trees,  but  at  this  time  of  the 
3'ear  you  can  see  him  in  all  the  copse  bushes 
upon  the  margin  of  nearly  every  wood.  As 
Sweetheart  and  I  came  up,  the  "yorlins"  took 
fright  at  my  companion's  red  cloak  and  flew  in 
a  compact  body  over  to  a  hedge  a  hundred 
yards  away. 

"Now,  watch  them,  Sweetheart,"  I  said;  "do 
you  see  how  they  are  flying?" 

"They  are  going  two  and  two!"  said  Sweet- 
heart. 

It  w^as  true.  The  yellow-hammer  had  already 
found  his  mate.  In  the  large  wise  books  which 
are  my  favourite  reading,  it  is  usually  stated 
that  the  yellow-hammer  pairs  in  March  or  April. 
But  Sweetheart  and  I  are  of  a  different  opinion. 
We  are  sure  that,  at  least  among  our  woods  and 
fields  of  the    North,  nearly  all  the   birds  which 


DRIPr  Y  DA  YS.  1 8 


0 


keep  together  in  flocks  during-  the  severe 
weather  have  their  own  friends  and  particular 
companions  right  through  the  winter. 

This  is  speciall}-  true  of  the  rooks,  wliich  are 
at  this  moment  i)assing-  above  us  on  their  home- 
ward wav  in  countless  mvriads.  The  rook  goes 
forth  in  armies,  it  is  true.  He  blackens  many 
a  field  when  he  alights.  He  devours  in  innumer- 
able company  the  squirmy  worm,  the  succulent 
slug.  But  at  a  word  he  Hies  off  in  platoons. 
At  the  sound  of  a  nearer  alarm,  the  same  squad 
of  half  a  dozen  rooks  will  always  scurry  off 
tocrether.  These  doubtless  form  a  mess,  just  as 
a  number  of  soldiers  do  in  a  regiment.  And  as 
in  barracks,  so  e\ery  rook  will  have  his  own 
chum,  mate,  or  comrade.  I  cannot  say  that 
these  friendships  are  made  in  every  case  between 
the  sexes,  but  in  most  cases,  no  doubt,  they 
are. 

Now  our  yellow-hammers  had  flown  off 
accurately  in  pairs,  and  in  a  little,  from  the  top- 
most bough  of  the  thorn  which  looks  over  the 
park  wall,  we  heard  their  monotonous  song. 
The  sino-er  was  a  little  indignant  at  our  intru- 
sion,  though,   as   Sweetheart   said,   he   need   not 


have  troubled  his  head.     We  were  not  going  to 


t> 


1 86  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

touch  liim  or  his  mate.     But  the  yellow  yorlin 
is  a  foolish,  fretful  bird  and  easily  frightened. 

"  Chich,  chick,  cJiich,  chich,  chee-ee  !     Churr-ee,  churr  / 
Please  go  away,  my  go-ood  sir-ee,  sir  ! 

Chich,  chich,  chiirr — chee-ee,  chterr  !  " 

That  is  what  he  sings — nothing  about  bread 
and  cheese  to-night,  you  observe.  Sweetheart 
claps  her  hands  at  this  new  interpretation,  and 
away  go  the  little  clouds  of  flashing  citron  dress 
suits,  yellow  most  elegantly  slashed  with  brown. 
See  how  they  wheel  in  the  air  like  starlings,  as 
accurately  in  time  as  soldiers  manoeuvre.  Here 
and  there  they  dash,  changing  and  turning. 
Suddenly  in  mid  flight  they  fall,  as  if  shot  in  a 
body  by  some  concealed  sportsman  with  a  great 
noiseless  air-gun.  Plump  !  Down  they  go  into 
a  clump  of  ash-trees  by  the  stackyard,  where 
they  sit  concealed. 

"  Are  they  all  dead  ?  "  says  Sweetheart,  much 
concerned  for  their  fate.  For  she  loves  the 
bold  uniform  of  his  excellency  the  Trumpet 
Major,  as  in  memory  of  Mr.  Hardy's  hero  we 
always  call  him. 

Now  there  is  great  chattering  and  scolding  in 
a  little  wood  of  thick  spruces  and  Scotch  firs 
just  over  the  park  wall.     Sweetheart  and  I  won- 


DRIPP  Y  DA  YS. 


187 


der  much  what  can  be  the  matter.     There  is  a 
row  there  and  no  policeman.      So  we  decide,  in 


SWEETHEART    WILL   BE   BETTER   ON    MY    BACK, 


the  interests  of  Her  iNIajesty's  peace  and  pubh'c 
morality  generally,  that  we  shall  go  down  and 
see  what  is  the  disturbance.      Nobody  asked  us 


1 88  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

to  interfere  ;  but  that  is  the  way  of  philan- 
thropists. It  is  rather  a  marshy  place,  and 
Sweetheart  will  be  better  on  my  back.  Once — 
twice — thrice,  and  up  she  goes  !  We  are  off 
among  the  trees.  Such  behaviour  may  be  con- 
sidered somewhat  unusual  between  sweethearts, 
but  this  particular  Sweetheart  is  perfectly  accus- 
tomed to  the  performance. 

"  Go  on  quicker,  father ;  I  believe  it's  a 
hawk  !  " 

The  "hawk"  is  the  wicked  uncle — the  inter- 
esting petty  tyrant  of  our  fields  and  woods. 
So  we  splash  hastily  into  the  depths  of  the 
little  wood,  stepping  over  the  ditches  where  the 
thaw  has  melted  the  snow  and  reduced  it  to  a 
slushy  and  unpleasant  pulp.  As  we  get  nearer 
the  chattering  waxes  louder  and  the  bad  lan- 
guage becomes  more  pronounced.  It  sounds, 
indeed,  quite  unseemly  in  this  quiet  place. 

"  Hush,  Sweetheart !  Draw  your  cloak  about 
you.  We  shall  see  everything  from  here. 
Listen !  It  is  in  the  spruce  just  above  us  to  the 
right." 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    THE    SWEETHEARTS. 


.  .-',-X=^  jE  look  eagerly  upward,  but  for  a 
lonor  time  we  cannot  see  more 
than  a  confused  passing  and  re- 
passing of  dark  forms  between 
the  interstices  of  the  branches. 
And  we  can  hear  no  more  than 
a  babel  of  sharp,  scolding  voices. 

The  shrewish   scolders  are   evidently   gentle- 

189 


I90  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

men  blackbirds,  and  they  are  very  angry  indeed 
about  something. 

"  Check  /  Check!  Check— check—check  !  ! !  " 

Fifty  of  them  are  reeling  off  this  word  at 
once  in  every  variety  of  tone  and  key.  But 
each  is  more  indignant  and  vixenish  than  the 
other.  Now  your  blackbird,  for  all  that  he  is  so 
gentlemanly  a  bird  when  he  comes  out  in  his 
black  calling-coat  upon  the  garden  walk,  and 
hops  about  in  such  a  purely  disinterested  and 
observational  way,  without  asking  for  anything 
like  a  mere  sparrow  or  chaf^nch,  has  yet  a  fund 
of  bad  barrack-room  language  (to  which  only 
Mr.  Kipling  could  do  justice)  whenever  he 
thinks  that  he  is  not  overheard. 

He  is,  indeed,  a  black  hypocrite  and  deceiver. 
When  you  hear  him  pouring  out  his  fluty 
melody,  as  Mr.  Birket  Foster  has  pictured  him 
many  a  time,  from  the  farthest-reaching  branch 
of  a  tree  set  purple  against  the  evening  sky,  his 
notes  are  as  soft  and  mellow  as  if  he  had  never 
said  a  bad  word  in  all  his  blameless  life.  It  is 
all  the  difference  between  the  tenor's  expression 
when  he  is  singing  a  serenade  in  the  balcony 
scene,  and  the  same  artist's  look  and  tone  when 


THE   REVOLT  OF    THE   SWEETHEARTS.  19 ^ 

the  stacre-manaoer  rates  him  for  coming-  late  to 
rehearsal.  And  certainly  these  blackljirds  are 
very  much  in  undress  now.  Sweetheart  waxes 
silent  and  sad.  She  could  not  have  believed 
that  her  favourite  could  possibly  have  acted  so 
disgracefully.  Why  should  a  blackbird  want  to 
be  a  blackguard  ?  Why  should  a  human  being, 
for  that  matter  ? 

In  a  moment  the  reason  was  plain.  The 
turmoil  orrew  till  the  wheeling  rooks  above 
paused  on  their  homeward  way,  and  sent  a 
scouting  party  to  the  copse  to  find  out  what 
was  wrong.  Suddenly  a  pair  of  cushat-doves 
dashed  out  of  the  bush  with  a  tumultuous  swirl 
of  wings,  flapping  them  clatteringly  like  little 
lapping  waves  beating  against  a  rock.  They 
flew  upward  with  a  rush  like  a  pair  of  rockets. 
A  cloud  of  blackbirds  darted  after  them  a  little 
way,  screaming  with  shrill  anger.  Then  the 
blackbirds  returned  and  had  quite  a  livel)'  little 
friendly  "turn-up"  among  themselves,  as  soon 
as  the  wood-pigeons  had  betaken  themselves  to 
pastures  new  and  copses  unoccupied. 

It  was,  after  all.  nothing  more  than  a  vulgar 
going-to-bed  quarrel.  A  pair  of  great  blunder- 
ing doves  had  quite  innocently  taken  possession 


192  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

of  the  upper  branches  of  a  spruce,  where,  under 
cover  of  the  thick  spines,  for  all  the  world 
as  though  they  were  under  an  umbrella,  the 
blackbirds  had  been  accustomed  to  roost. 
Hence  this  unseemly  waking  of  the  woodland 
echoes. 

Sweetheart  was  quite  relieved. 

"  Then  after  all  it  was  not  the  blackbirds' 
fault,  perhaps  !  "  she  said,  "  But,"  thinking  the 
matter  over,  "  I  do  think  they  might  have  ob- 
jected them  more  quietly." 

Sweetheart  mixes  words  sometimes,  but  we 
never  correct  her.  She  will  learn  all  too  soon 
to  talk  as  other  people  do. 

But  what  was  done  is  well  done  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  blackbirds.  For  soon  we 
could  hear  them  settling  themselves  in  the 
branches  with  little  sleepy  murmurings  and  com- 
plainings at  each  other's  encroachments. 

It  was  time  also  for  Sweetheart  and  me  to  be 
turnine  homeward.  We  looked  above  us.  The 
pale  half  moon  was  already  sailing  through 
some  fleecy  cloudlets.  I  quoted  from  "  Lucy 
Gray"  : 

"  The  minster  clock  has  just  struck  two, 
And  yonder  is  the  moon." 


THE  REVOLT  OF    THE    SWEETHEARTS.  193 

"  But  it  hasn't — it's  after  three  !  "  said  Sweet- 
heart, so  much  alarmed  by  my  unveracity  that 
she  forgot  to  be  quite  polite.  I  explained  that 
it  is  not  meant  to  be  true.      It  was  only  poetry. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Sweetheart  contentedly,  with 
much  meaning  in  her  tone.  The  explanation 
was  entirely  satisfactory.  There  are  no  Ten 
Commandments  for  poets. 

But  immediately,  as  is  her  wont,  she  pro- 
ceeded to  better  the  quotation  according  to  her 
lights — which,  I  fear,  were  not  Wordsworth's. 

"  The  eight-day  clock  has  just  struck  three, 
I  must  go  home  to  cake  and  tea." 

But  this  is,  indeed,  one  word  for  sense  and 
one  for  rhyme,  for  really  Sweetheart  cares  very 
much  for  cake  but  not  at  all  for  tea.  All  poets 
feel  these  little  difficulties,  and  are  compelled 
to  the  same  inaccuracies.  This,  in  turn,  was 
followed  by  : 

"  The  minister's  clock  has  just  struck  four — 
That  cake  is  good — I'll  have  some  more." 

It  was  indeed  time  we  were  ofoine  home. 
Easy  (we  have  it  on  authority)  is  the  descent  to 


194  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

Avernus.  And  many  a  bold  bad  poet  has 
begun  with  something  quite  as  innocent  as 
these  nonsense  rhymes  of  Sweetheart's.  So  on 
the  spot  I  reproved  her  severely,  and  asked  if 
she  was  aware  that  I  promised  the  clergyman  at 
her  christening  to  bring  her  up  to  respectable 
habits,  and  to  give  her  a  sound  commercial 
education — instead  of  which  she  goes  about  the 
country  making  poetry. 

But  Sweetheart  was  not  at  all  abashed. 

"  There  is  a  whole  book  of  poetry  upstairs 
which  mother  says  j)/<??^  wrote  !  " 

Whereupon  I  replied,  more  severely  still  : 
"  Little  girls  should  be  seen  and   not   heard  !  " 

This  is  the  distressed  parent's  final  line  of 
defence — his  last  ditch,  garrisoned  by  his  Ban 
and  Arriere-Ban  of  argument. 

But  Sweetheart  only  laughed  merrily,  all 
unashamed.  What  is  to  come  of  the  British 
constitution  if  young  people  take  to  answering 
back  to  their  elders  in  this  fashion  ?  Let  us  sit 
down  and  write  to  the  Nineteenth  Century  about 
"  The  Revolt  of  the  Sweethearts." 

But  after  all  we  make  it  up  with  a  kiss  and 
go   homeward    quietly    and   happily.      And  the 


THE   REVOLT  OF    THE    SWEETHEARTS.  I95 

curtain  of  night  falls  upon  the  scene — upon  the 
nestHng  blackbirds  in  the  copse,  and  on  us  for 
whom  there  are  waiting  cake  and  tea,  in  the 
mysterious  dusk  ahead  of  us  where  the  lights  of 
home  are  beginning  to  glimmer. 


S\/[ETj]t/^^r 


c, 


'^^'h 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


IWEETHEART  is  At  Home  on 
Saturdays.  But  she  desires  it 
to  be  as  widely  known  as  possible 
that  she  does  not  turn  away  her 
friends  on  other  days  of  the  week, 
especially  if  they  are  in  the  habit 
of  carrying  chocolates  about  with  them.  So,  of 
course,  since  she  receives,  she  must  also  pay 
calls. 

In  consequence  of  this  she  has  had  her  cards 
printed.      In  fact  she  prints  them  herself  upon 

196 


SWEETHEART  PAYS  CALLS.  197 

paper  begged  from  Mr.  Father  for  the  purpose. 
There  is  one  before  me  and  it  says  : 


sWEETHEARt. 

wheN  tHis  you  see  Re.Member  me. 
XXX326. 


Sweetheart  tells  me  she  did  not  make  up  the 
poetry  all  herself.  In  fact  she  owns  to  saving 
up  and  using  the  lovely  verses  that  are  to  be 
found  in  the  lucky-bags  from  the  village  confec- 
tion-shop, and  those  which  come  out  of  the 
crackers  at  Christmas.  Then  she  prints  one  of 
the  poems  on  each  card.  The  effect  is  original. 
From  evidence  into  which  there  is  no  need  to 
enter,  I  either  that  Sweetheart  wrote  this  verse 
on  her  callino-  card  soon  after  having  had  an 
interview  with  a  piece  of  bread  and  jam — red 
currant  jam,  I  should  think. 

Sweetheart  has  another  habit  of  her  own 
which  marks  her  originality.  She  does  not 
leave  her  cards  on  those  wlio  call  upon  her. 
Why  should  she  ?  They  will  come  to  see  her 
in  any  case.      Sweetheart  leaves  her  cards  only 


igS  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

on  people  who  do  not  come  to  see  her.     This  is 
a  custom  worth  thinking  about. 

Now,  Sweetheart  has  a  great  many  more 
friends  besides  those  who  Hve  in  houses  made 
of  stone  or  brick.  Many  of  Sweetheart's  friends 
build  their  own  houses.  And  none  of  them 
ever  talk  about  the  weather  or  ask  if  you  have 
been  at  the  Academy — so  it  is  quite  pleasant  to 
go  visiting  with  Sweetheart.  I  often  go  myself. 
In  fact,  1  hold  upon  visiting  days  what  is  known 
among  wise  and  learned  men  as  a  "watching 
brief  "  on  behalf  of  an  interested  party.  It  is, 
indeed,  no  light  matter  to  be  responsible  for 
Sweetheart. 

Now,  it  is  May  time  of  the  year,  and  many  of 
Sweetheartis  friends  are  busy  with  their  house- 
building. But  they  do  not  object  to  a  visit 
even  then — for  though  she  takes  her  cards 
along,  it  is  mostly  for  grandeur  and  because  it  is 
the  fashion.  Sweetheart  does  not  really  stand 
on  ceremony  with  her  friends. 

As  I  say,  I  am  permitted  to  accompany  the 
young  lady  on  her  round  of  calls.  But  quite 
often  I  have  to  stand  at  a  distance,  for  the 
familiarity  of  Sweetheart's  friends  with  herself 
does    not    always    frank    a    stranger    who    has 


SWEETHEART  PAYS   CALLS.  199 

not  the  pleasure;  of  their  so  intimate  ac- 
quaintance. 

Our  first  call  was  made  on  Master  Robin 
Redbreast,  who  lives  all  the  year  round  with  his 
wife  at  No.  i  Ivy  Terrace.  Both  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Robin  are  our  constant  friends,  and  call 
on  us  every  morning-  in  the  winter-time,  when 
Robin  perks  himself  up  on  the  window  ledge 
and  "cocks  a  shinino;  eve"  knowinoj-ly  at  us  as 
we  sit  at   breakfast. 

Sweetheart  thinks  him  a  delightful  friend, 
but  the  less  forofivine  of  us  have  our  doubts. 
He  has  a  habit  of  not  knowino^  us  in  the  summer 
when  his  provision  basket  has  come,  and  he 
never  invites  us  to  have  anv  of  liis  breakfast. 
Then  he  slips  along  in  the  shadow  of  the  hedges 
like  a  shadow,  and  he  docs  not  like  anyone  to 
knock  at  his  door,  or  look  in  at  his  children — 
except,  it  may  be,  Sweetheart.  So  she  calls  on 
him  and  he  sits  on  a  bough  a  little  way  off  and 
looks  trustingly  at  her  with  full,  rich  eyes. 

"  Little  Sweetheart — little  Sweetheart  !  "  he 
calls  to  her  till  his  wife  is  jealous  and  hops  off 
the  nest  in  a  huff.  Then  we  can  o-q  near  and 
look  in.  Sweetheart  beckons  to  us  with  her 
hand.      We  approach  cautiously  on  tiptoe.      But 


200  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

Robin  does  not  admire  or  trust  everyone  as  he 
does  Sweetheart,  so  he  jerks  himself  indignantly 
away  after  his  wife. 

"  There,  you  see  !  Did  I  not  tell  you  ?  You 
see  what  comes  of  encouraging  that  chit  with 
the  yellow  hair  !  "  she  says  spitefully. 

But  we  just  look  a  moment  at  the  beautiful 
white  eggs  with  their  spots  of  soft  red  and 
brown,  harmonised  with  shaded  gray  specklings. 
Sweetheart,  who  has  grown  very  punctilious, 
leaves  one  of  her  cards  on  the  Redbreasts — 
though  privately,  I  think  her  call  was  rather  an 
ill-advised  proceeding,  seeing  that  the  lady  of 
the  house  flounced  out  when  she  came.  But  I 
dare  not  say  anything,  for  Sweetheart  is  emanci- 
pated, and  might  tell  me  to  mind  my  own  busi- 
ness. I  note,  however,  that  it  is  one  of  her 
prettiest  cards  which  she  leaves,  and  there  is, 
besides  the  inscription,  a  charming  picture  of 
Mr.  Robin  himself,  cut  from  one  of  the  sheets 
of  coloured  scraps  which  are  to  be  bought  at  the 
bookseller's. 

So  that  is  one  call  finished.  Next  we  set  out 
to  drop  in  upon  Master  Grasshopper,  who  is 
sino-inof  chirr  to  his  sweetheart  in  a  distinct 
falsetto.     Sweetheart  thinks  that  he  has  not  had 


SWEETHEART  PAYS  CALLS.  20 1 

a  good  music-teacher.  Mr.  Grasshopper  lives 
in  the  hayficld  amongr  tall  bennet  grasses.  But 
he  is  not  at  home  this  morning,  and  there  is  a 
dead  beetle  lying  at  his  front  door.  So  perhaps 
he  has  had  "times"  with  that  beetle  before  he 
went  a-Maying.  Sweetheart  wishes  she  had 
been  there  to  see.  She  does  not,  however, 
waste  a  card  on  him.  She  is  not  going  to  leave 
a  fine  piece  of  poetry  lying  alongside  of  a  dead 
beetle  with  his  legs  waving  awkwardly  in  the  air. 
That  would  be  too  ridiculous.  She  is  almost 
resolved  to  cross  Mr.  Grasshopper  off  her  visit- 
ing list.  He  is  extremely  provoking.  This  is 
the  third  time  she  has  called  and  he  has  been 
out.  Yet  each  time  she  could  hear  him  braying 
away  in  the  long  grass.  She  believes  he  went 
and  hid  on  purpose. 

"Which,  when  you  think  of  it,"  adds  Sweet- 
heart, "  is  fearfully  -rude  !  " 

But  I  interpose,  "  Suppose,  Sweetheart,  you 
were  amongf  the  clover,  and  a  i^reat  eiantess 
came  clumping  along " 

"  I  didn't,"  said  Sweetheart,  who  being  a 
woman,  makes  the  personal  application  by 
instinct. 

"  It  was  just  a  way  of  speaking,"  I  say.      But 


20  2  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

Sweetheart  does  not  understand  ways  of  speak- 
ing and  is  justly  indignant. 

.So  we  go,  in  a  somewhat  constrained  silence, 
to  call  on  Cousin  Frank's  Guinea-pigs.  One  of 
them  had  once  come  (in  a  basket)  to  pay  Sweet- 
heart a  visit,  and  because  it  had  a  pink  nose 
Sweetheart  broke  through  her  rule  and  returned 
the  call. 

We  asked  her  the  reason. 

"  It's  because  Guinea-pigs  are  as  interesting 
as  common  pigs,  and  ever  so  much  cleaner." 

Sweetheart  says  that  Cousin  Frank's  Guinea 
was  certainly  quite  fit  to  entertain  the  Queen — 
or  even  Miss  Priscilla  Prim  from  Prinkwell  Cot- 
tage down  the  shady  lane,  who  is  the  cleanest 
person  hereabouts,  and  has  combed  all  her 
poodle's  hair  out,  so  that  she  has  been  obliged 
to  have  a  wig  made  for  him  in  Paris. 

Cousin  Frank's  Guinea-pig  sniffed  at  us  upon 
our  arrival,  winking  with  its  funny  jumpy  nose 
at  us  very  hard,  and  then  began  to  nibble  at  the 
parsley  Sweetheart  had  ready.  Sweetheart  put 
all  the  chopped  green  stuff  down  in  a  bowl,  and 
Guinea  nosed  among  it,  tossing  most  of  it 
out  on  the  floor  while  seeking  for  the  juiciest 
bits. 


SWEETHEART  PAYS  CALLS.  205 

But  alas  !  (luinca  would  not  allow  even  his 
own  wife  to  come  near. 

"Just  like  a  boy,"  said  Sweetheart  senten- 
tiously  ;  "boys  is  always  selfish." 

After  this  sad  occurrence  we  came  out  and 
called  on  a  real  pigsty  pig-,  whose  name  was 
Mister  Snork,  an  unpleasant  person  with  red 
eyes.  We  found  him  reclining  on  his  side  in  a 
pool  in  the  muddiest  part  of  his  courtyard. 

Sweetheart  did  not  leave  any  card  on  him. 
She  turned  up  her  nose  instead. 

"  I  won't  eat  none  of  you,  now  then — so  now 
you  needn't  think  it  !"   she  said. 

This  was  no  doubt  an  extreme  thing  to  say. 
But  really  Mr.  Snork  fulh*  deserved  it,  and  I 
don't  think  either  of  us  were  sorry  for  him.  fie 
was  so  exceedingly  disreputable-looking. 

When  we  came  away,  Sweetheart  asked  me, 
"What  relation  is  Mr.  Guinea  Pig  to  ]\Ir.  Sty 
Pig?" 

"  Really,  Sweetheart,"  I  replied,  "  I  don't  know. 
Perhaps  cousins  twice  removed." 

"  I  don't  think  they  are  related  at  all,"  she 
said,  putting  her  head  sideways  to  think  about 
it.      "  I  can't  believe  it,  to  look  at  them." 

"Then  what   relatives  do  you  think  they  are, 


2o6 


S IVEE  THE  A  A' T    TEA  VELLERS. 


Sweetheart  ?  "  I  ask,  for  I  can  see  a  great  idea 
struggling-  for  expression  in  her  discriminating 
mind. 

"  I  think,"  said  Sweetheart,  after  immense 
consideration,  "that  they  must  only  be  connec- 
tions by  marriage,  just  Hke  mother  says  she  is 
to  you  !  " 

Then  we  went  home,  and  I  sat  down  to  record 
these  marv^els. 


COUSINS   TWICE   REMOVED. 


CHAPTER    XXY. 


HUGOS    OPINION    OK    PIGTAILS. 


WISH  )ou  were  a  Chinaman, 
Sweetheart, "  said  Huqo  to  his 
sister    the    other   day. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Sweetheart, 
pausing  witli  a  raspberry  half- 
way to  lier  hps.  They  were 
down  on  the  bank-side,  pulhng  rasps,  and  mak- 
ing "  perfect  sights "  of  themselves,  as  their 
nurse  justly  said  when  they  came  in  to  be 
dressed   for  lunch. 

"  Because,"  said  Hugo,  "then  you  would  have 
to  wear  a  pigtail,  and  it  would  be  so  proper 
jolly  to  pull !  " 

Why  all  boys  named  Hugo  take  to  mischief 


207 


2o8  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

as  naturally  as  ducks  to  water,  is  one  of  the 
problems  that  have  never  been  explained — and 
very  probably  never  will.  But  here  is  Sweet- 
heart ready  to  vouch  for  the  fact. 

"  I  think  that  I  shall  pull  your  hair  now,  and 
then  you  will  know  how  it  feels  to  be  a  little 
China  boy,"  said  Hugo,  with  whom  to  think 
is  to  act. 

"  No,  indeed,  you  shan't  pull  my  hair  !  I 
don't  want  to  be  a  China  boy,  or  to  have  my 
hair  pulled.  I  want  to  pick  raspberries,"  said 
Sweetheart,  defending  herself  girlfully  *  with  a 
branch  of  bramble,  which  happily  kept  the 
assailant  at  arm's  lenoth. 

"Mother  says  that  it  will  make  us  give  more 
to  missionaries  if  we  feel  for  the  poor  Chinese," 
said  Hugo  dexterously,  putting  the  matter  on 
quite  another  footing. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  made  feel  for  the  Chinese 
by  having  my  hair  pulled,"  protested  Sweetheart 
emphatically. 

The  young  desperado  was  on  the  point  of 
proceeding  to  extremities,  when  a  higher  power 
appeared   on    the    scene,   in    the    shape    of    the 

*  Why  should   not  one  say  "  boyfully,"   "  girlfully,"   if  one  can  say 
"  manfully  "  ? 


HUGO'S  OPIXIOX  OF  PIGTAILS.  209 

Lady  of  the  Workbasket.  Who  the  Lady  of 
the  Workbasket  may  be,  is  a  dead  secret.  The 
writer  is  sworn  not  to  tell.  But  as  Sweetheart 
and  Hugo  sometimes  called  her  "  mother,"  it  is 
probable  that  she  must  have  been  some  relative 
of  theirs. 

The  Lady  of  the  Workbasket  sat  down  on  a 
garden-seat,  first  looking  carefully  to  see  if  there 
were  no  tigers  crouching  under  it,  or  any  rattle- 
snakes coiled  upon  it. 

This  is  what  the  Lady  of  the  Workbasket 
always  does  before  she  sits  down.  She  has  done 
it  all  her  Hfe,  and  has  never  yet  found  any 
tigers  or  rattlesnakes.  But,  after  all,  one  never 
knows. 

"Children,"  she  said,  "  what  were  you  quarrel- 
ling about  ?  I  heard  you  as  I  came  down  the 
garden." 

"  Oh,  mother,  Hufjo  said "  besfan  one. 

"  Oh,  mother.  Sweetheart  said "  began  the 

other. 

"  Now,  not  both  at  once,  please,"  said  the 
Lady  of  the  Workbasket,  holding  up  her  hand 
to  check  the  flow  of  mutual  accusation.  "  Sweet- 
heart, you  are  the  oldest.  Tell  me  what  it  was 
all  about." 


2 1  o  s  IV EE  THE  A  R  T    TRA  VELLERS. 

"  It  was  about  the  Chinese  and  their  pigtails," 
said  Sweetheart. 

"  Yes,  and  Sweetheart  said  she  didn't  want  to 
feel  for  the  poor  missionaries  !  "  cried  Hugo,  over 
his  sister's  shoulder. 

"  Not  by  having  you  pull  my  hair,  you  horrid 
boy  ! "  said  Sweetheart,  frowning  at  him. 

I  am  sorry  that  Sweetheart  said  "You  horrid 
boy  ! "  There  is,  however,  no  use  denying  the 
fact  that  Hugo  and  she  sometimes  refer  to  each 
other  in  such  terms.  But  then  they  are  so  dif- 
ferent from  other  children.  I  am  glad  to  think 
that  no  other  brothers  and  sisters  ever  speak  to 
each  other  like  that.  Such  expressions  are  not 
found  in  the  authorities  upon  the  subject — in 
story  books,  I  mean. 

"I  want  to  hear  about  the  Chinese,"  said 
Sweetheart  piously — not  so  much,  we  fear,  be- 
cause she  cared  to  hear  about  the  Chinese,  as 
because  she  wanted  to  nestle  down  beside  the 
Lady  of  the  Workbasket  and  play  with  the 
reels  of  silk  of  different  colours. 

"  I  don't,"  said  Hugo  frankly,  "  I  want  to  go 
on  pulling  raspberries  and  eating  them." 

"Oh,  Hugo,  you  greedy  boy!  Isn't  it  nice 
to  hear  about  the  missionaries  in  church  ?     Ever 


HUGO'S  OPINION  OF  PIGTAILS.  211 

SO  much  better  than  sermons,"  said  Sweetheart, 
who  had  her  own  opinions  on  ecclesiastical 
matters. 

"This  isn't  church,"  said  Hugo,  putting  a 
large  rasp  into  his  mouth  with  a  relish  which 
really  amounted  to  a  thanksgiving  that  things 
were  as 'they  were. 

"  Here  comes  father  out  of  his  den  !  Hurrah  ! 
He'll  tell  us  all  about  China,"  cried  Sweetheart 
triumphantly.  "And  now  you'll  have  to  listen," 
she  said  under  her  breath  to  her  brother — "  so 
now,  Master  Hugo  !  " 

Mr.  Father  did  come  down,  and  was  duly 
asked  to  explain  the  pigtail  question.  He  is 
supposed  to  know  everything.  All  fathers  know 
everything.  Only  sometimes,  when  this  father 
was  not  quite  sure,  then  he  said,  "  I  have  not 
time  to  tell  you  now."  And  with  that  went  in 
and  looked  it  up  in  the  Encyclopct'dia.  All 
fathers  do  that.  Children  must  learn  to  respect 
their  parents. 

"  Chinese  pigtails  ?  "  said  Mr.  Father  slowly. 
"It  was  afternoon  tea  I  came  after.  What  do 
I  know  about  Chinese  pigtails  ?  Not  much.  I 
fear."  (You  see,  he  had  not  had  time  to  go  to 
his  E^icyclopa^dia^     "  I  know  that  pigtails  have 


212  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

not  been  many  hundred  years  in  China,  and  that 
is  a  very  short  time  out  there.  It  was  the  kings 
of  the  present  ruHng  family  that  made  the 
Chinamen  wear  them." 

"  And  did  they  like  it  ?  I  should  not,"  said 
Sweetheart  emphatically. 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  they  did  at  first.  In- 
deed many  of  them  were  killed  because  they 
would  not  wear  them." 

"  And  did  they  wear  them  after  that  ? "  queried 
Hugo,  taking  another  raspberry. 

Mr.  Father  apparently  did  not  notice  the  in- 
terruption.    This  is  called  being  dignified, 

"  But  they  like  them  now,  and  are  very  proud 
of  them,"  he  went  on. 

"/  saw  a  pig  yesterday,"  cried  out  Hugo 
irrelevantly.  "  It  had  such  a  funny  tail,  black 
and  curly,  and  it  said,  'Week,  zveek!'"' 

Mr.  Father,  whose  useful  information  machin- 
ery had  now  begun  to  work,  was  just  explaining 
that  the  speech  of  the  Chinese  was  monosyllabic. 
Whereupon  Sweetheart  looked  at  the  Lady  of 
the  Workbasket,  because  she  did  not  know  what 
the  big  word  meant,  and  she  did  not  like  to  ask 
out  loud. 

"  The  little  piggy  with  the  tail  said,  '  Tweek, 


HUGO'S  OPINlOiY  OF  PIGTAILS. 


213 


week!'  Wasn't  it  funny  ?"  repeated  Hugo,  who 
has  no  fine  feelings  about  interrupting  at  any 
time  when  he  has  anything-  to  say.  Hethoug-ht 
that  his  former  statements  upon  the  point  liad 
not  been   sufficiently   attended   to. 

Mr.    Father    laughed,    and    went    on    to    tell 
Sweetheart  and  Huo^o  that   thous^h   one   China- 


"  WE   WERE   ONLY    SAVAGES." 

man  might  look  very  funny  with  his  pigtail,  yet 
the  Chinese  were  a  very  oreat  and  numerous 
people,  and  that  there  were  indeed  more  China- 
men in  the  world  than  men  of  any  other  race. 
He  told  the  children  also  how  the  Chinese  had 
been  wise  and  learned  when  we  in  this  island 
were  only  naked  savages,  painting  ourselves 
blue,  and  runnino-  about  everywhere  fiMitincf 
with   one  another. 


214  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

"  I  wish  I  was  a  savage  now  !  I  could  paint 
myself  such  a  lovely  blue.  Prussian  would  be 
best,"  said  Hugo  thoughtfully.  He  had  a  paint- 
box of  his  own,  and  wished  he  was  at  liberty  to 
colour  himself  rather  more  comprehensively 
tlian  he  had  hitherto  done.  "  I'd  rather  be  a 
savage  any  day." 

"  I  think,  after  all,  I  should  like  my  hair  done 
in  a  pigtail,"  said  Sweetheart,  who  had  been 
thinking  the  matter  over,  and  not  attending  to 
Hugo.  "  Then  it  would  not  blow  in  your  eyes, 
nor  ever  get  tuggy." 

"Pooh!"  said  Huoro.  "The  tail  I  saw  was 
black  and  curly,  and  the  piggy  said,  '  Week !  '  " 

Then  while  Mr.  Father  told  of  the  little  boys 
in  China,  their  plays  and  their  schools,  and  the 
hard  lessons  they  had,  everyone  listened.  And 
when  he  came  to  tell  about  the  kite-flying  and 
paper-burning,  even  Hugo  stopped  eating  rasps 
and  came  to  hear  about  them. 

"  Mother  told  us  before  that  they  burn  paper 
over  their  parents'  graves,"  said  Sweetheart, 
"because  they  think  the  dead  people  are 
appeased  by  the  smoke." 

Sweetheart  loves  fine  words  more  than  the 
scrapings  of  the  jam-pan. 


HUGO'S  OP  IN  10  iW  OF  PIGTAILS.  215 

"Hum!"  said  Hugo.  "Yesterday  /  burned 
a  whole  pile  of  newspaper  under  iJiy  father's 
study  window,  and  he  only  said,  '  Go  away  from 
there,  you  dirty  boy!'  He  wasn't  'peased  by 
the  smoke  one  bit !  " 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

BY    THE    BOGLE-TIIORN. 

]EPTEMBER  is  usually  just  Au- 
gust with  the  gas  screwed  down 
and   the  fire  out. 

Yet  there  was  no  such  fault  to  be 
found  with  the  September  after- 
noon when  Sweetheart  and  I 
last  set  off.  Our  journey  was  a  surprise 
for  Sweetheart,  and  there  is  nothing  that  Sweet- 
heart loves  so  much.  But  then  you  see  at  five 
years  of  age  all  surprises  are  pleasant.  After- 
ward they  get  a  little  more  mixed.  The  happy 
life  is  to  be  always  five,  to  have  surprises  every 
day,  and  to  believe  like  fire  in  Santa  Claus. 

At  four  by  the  clock  Sweetheart   is  climbing 
on    a    bank    all    overgrown    with    flowers — fifty 

216 


BV    THE  BOCLE-TIIORX.  217 

kinds  of  them,  sucli  a  tangle.  Many  of  these 
are  now  losing  their  fresh  beauty,  but  Sweet- 
heart is  not  interested  in  the  flowers  this  day. 
Her  hands  have  purple  stains  on  them,  and  her 
lips,  alas  !  are  no  more  of  "  her  own  geranium 
red. 

For  the  blackberries  are  ripe.  The  little 
knobby  globes  of  the  bramble  hang  everywhere, 
and  every  night  in  our  own  hired  house  the  pre- 
serving pot  is  put  on,  till  the  delicious  smell  of 
ripe  boiling  fruit  fills  all  the  garden  walks.  At 
these  times  Sweetheart  becomes  so  sticky  that 
we  have  to  keep  her  at  arm's  length,  whenever 
the  warmth  of  her  affection  threatens  to  over- 
flow into  a  caress.  Afterward  she  and  I  clean 
the  brass  preserving  pan  with  horn  spoons — 
once,  twice,  thrice,  and  start  fair  ! 

But  there  is  one  thino-  in  the  world  that  will 
take  Sweetheart  away  from  a  bank  of  black- 
berries and  the  superintendence  of  Lord  Baby 
Brother.  That  young  nobleman  toddles  every- 
where after  her  on  tottery  fat  legs,  and  declares 
his  intention  of  getting  "  fine  wipe  gamble- 
berries,"  returning  triumphantly  in  a  little  to 
his  nurse  with  the  o-reenest  and  hardest  to  be 
attained   within    half  a  mile.      But    Lord    Baby 


2l8  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

Brother  generally  manages  to  crawl  up  the  bank, 
and  having  secured  his  prey  he  immediately 
proceeds  to  tumble  headlong  down  again,  heels 
over  head.  He  is,  however,  a  sturdy  Spartan, 
and  never  either  cries  or  lets  go  the  precious 
"  gambleberries."  He  brings  them  clenched  in 
his  chubby  fists,  declaring  all  the  time  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  "  I'se  got  such  a  yot !  I'se  got 
such  a  yot !  " 

But  when  I  ride  up  on  the  tricycle,  Sweetheart 
is  down  upon  the  road  in  a  moment. 

"  Oh,  where  are  you  going  ?  Can  I  come, 
father  ? "  This  with  petitionary  grace  and 
thrilling   accent   of  appeal. 

Sweetheart  can,  provided  that  the  red  cloak 
of  the  traveller  is  obtained.  We  are  to  go  far 
away  along  the  breezy  loch-sides  in  order  to 
meet  the  Lady  of  the  Workbasket,  homeward 
bound.  And  as  it  is  September,  and  already 
late  in  the  day,  we  must  be  well  wrapped  up. 

This  explanation  is  not  more  than  half  over, 
when  Sweetheart  is  on  her  way  to  the  house, 
locks  flying,  bare  legs  twinkling  in  the  sun.  In 
a  trice  she  is  out  again,  waving  the  red  cloak, 
and  munching  a  piece  of  bread,  running  all  the 
time  at  top  speed — three  things  which   I   should 


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BY    THE   BOGLE-THORN.  221 

not  care  to  do  all  at  once  at  my  time  of  lifr.  In 
addition  she  is  hurrahing-  with  all  her  might. 
So  that  is  four  things  which  this  most  notable 
of  Sweethearts  can  do  at  one  and  the  same 
time. 

We  left  Lord  Baby  Brother  behind  us,  en- 
gaged in  a  determined  attempt  to  storm  the 
Redan  of  a  specially  inaccessible  bank  or  break 
his  neck  in  the  attempt.  He  had  seen  some 
greener  and  harder  brambles  at  the  top  than 
any  he  had  )et  obtained,  and  so  have  them  he 
must.  Thus  he  was  happily  all  unconscious  of 
Sweetheart's  base  desertion. 

Throuo^h  the  winkings  shadows  of  the  tall 
Lombardy  poplars  we  swept  onward.  The  road 
was  smooth  and  hard  as  asphalt.  Sweetheart 
turned  her  head  to  count  the  milestones  which 
we  passed.  The  wind  just  drew  in  our  faces  so 
that  we  felt  the  cool  pressure,  but  it  did  not 
retard  us. 

Sweetheart  said  :  "  How  long  is  it  since  you 
saw  me  on  the  top  of  that  bank,  father  ?  " 

"  It  is  about  ten  minutes,  Sweetheart.  Why 
do  you  wish  to  know  ?  " 

"  Because  I  was  thinking  what  a  difference  ten 
minutes  make.      Ten  minutes  ap-o  I  did  not  even 


222  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

know  that  I  should  be  riding  on  the  tricycle  with 
you,  father.      And  now  here  I  am  !" 

No  doubt  a  mental  philosopher  could  make 
somethinor  of  this.      It  is  beyond  me. 

A  stone-breaker  was  breaking  stones  at  the 
side  of  the  road.  He  gazed  solemnly  at  us 
through  his  wire  goggles  with  a  singularly 
antique  look,  as  though  he  had  been  one  of  the 
cave-dwellers  come  to  life.  What  he  thought  of 
us,  as  we  sped  past,  we  could  neither  tell  nor  yet 
wait  to  find  out.  But  Sweetheart  thought  that 
it  must  be  very  nice  to  be  a  stone-breaker. 

"  See,  father,  he  is  looking  after  us  now.  He 
cannot  be  very  busy.  If  I  were  a  stone-breaker, 
do  you  know  what  I  should  do  ?  " 

We  do  not,  most  certainly. 

"  Well,"  said  Sweetheart,  "  I  should  have  a 
dog — name  of  Trusty — a  big  brown  dog.  Yes, 
he  should  be  brown — and  he  should  be  the  most 
faithful  animal  in  the  whole  world.  He  would 
lie  on  my  coat  and  take  care  of  it,  while  I  went 
on  breaking  stones,  piling  them  up  and  cracking 
them  into  little  bits  as  regular  as  lump  sugar. 
I  should  like  to  be  a  stone-breaker,  father.  Can 
I  be  a  stone-breaker  and  have  a  dog  named 
Trusty — a  brown  dog  ?  " 


BV    THE  BOGLE-THORN. 


223 


I  replied  that  her  parents  liad  not  yet  con- 
sidered the  matter  with  the  earnestness  which 
the  crisis  required.      But  that,  having  heard  tliis 


HE   GAZED    SOLEMNLY    AT   US. 


expression  of  her  preference,  I  doubted  not  that 
we  should  give  the  matter  our  immediate  atten- 
tion.     Or,  as  before,  words  to  that  etlcct. 


2  24  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

Now,  Loch  Grenoch  lay  beneath  us,  sparkling 
with  a  myriad  facets,  as  the  light,  veering  winds 
criss-crossed  over  it  and  sent  the  wavelets  in  a 
tiny  "  jabble  "  against  the  stones.  We  were  soon 
under  the  Bogle-thorn.  In  an  unconscious 
moment,  once  upon  a  time,  I  had  informed 
Sweetheart  that  on  the  branches  of  that  tree  in 
years  long  past,  when  I  used  to  trudge  past  it  on 
foot,  there  used  to  be  seen  little  green  men, 
moping  and  mowing.  So  every  time  we  pass 
that  way  Sweetheart  requires  the  story  without 
variations.  Not  a  single  fairy  must  be  added  or 
subtracted.  Now,  it  happens  that  the  road  goes 
uphill  at  the  Bogle-thorn,  and  to  remember  a 
fairy  tale  which  one  has  made  up  the  year  before 
last,  and  at  the  same  time  to  drive  a  tricycle  with 
a  great  girl  of  five  thereon,  is  not  so  easy  as 
sleeping.  So,  most  unfortunately,  I  omit  the 
curl  of  a  green  monkey's  tail  in  my  recital,  which 
a  year  ago  had  made  an  impression  upon  a  small 
girl's  accurate  memory.  And  her  reproachful 
accent  as  she  says,  "  Oh,  father,  you  are  telling 
it  all  different,"  carries  its  own  condemnation 
with  it. 

I  urge  that  it  was  not  easy  to  tell  the  exact 
truth  about  green   monkeys,  when  pedalling  all 


BY    TffE   BOGLE-THORA\  225 

one's  might  up  a  hill  against  the  wind.  Rut  1 
am  conscious,  even  as  I  utter  the  words,  that  the 
plea  is  radically  bad,  and  it  certainl\-  does  not 
impose  upon  Sweetheart.  We  were  soon  on  a 
smooth  stretch,  see-sawing  along  the  ups  and 
downs  of  the  moorland  way.  Here  the  fascinating 
memories  of  the  farm  where  Mr.  Father  lived 
and  played  when  he  was  a  boy  gave  Sweetheart 
plenty  to  ask  about  as  w^e  spun  along. 

"  And  what  happened  just  here,  father?" 

Happily,  by  the  time  the  explanation  is  begun 
something  else  has  been  seen,  and  another  ques- 
tion has  to  be  asked.  Thus  one  interest  destroys 
another  in  Sweetheart's  mind,  whilst  I  am  left  in 
peace  to  make  the  wheels  go  round. 

We  heard,  as  we  went,  the  rattle  of  the  trees 
falling  over  in  the  woods  of  the  Hollan  Isle, 
w^here  they  were  dragging  copsewood  to  the 
waterside  to  be  stripped  of  its  bark.  There 
came  over  to  us  also  the  cheerful  clank  of 
chains  as  the  horse  was  checked  at  the  edge  of 
the  water. 

In  the  face  of  the  light  breeze  we  sped  north- 
ward, passing  mile  after  mile  of  delightfully 
varied  scenery  behind  us  with  precision  and 
regularity.     The  roads  were  perfection,  the  sun 


2  26  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

was  cool,  the  wind  light — on  the  front  seat  sat 
Sweetheart,  and  she  chattered  incessantly.  Who, 
in  such  circumstances,  could  be  a  pessimist  ? 

We  skimmed  under  the  imminent  side  of  the 
Bennan  Hill,  now  purple  and  golden-brown  with 
the  heather  and  the  dying  bracken.  On  our 
right,  by  the  loch-side  of  Ken,  we  passed  the 
little  cottage  which  thirty  years  ago  was  known 
to  all  in  the  neighbourhood  as  Snuffy  Point, 
from  an  occupant  who  was  said  to  use  so  much 
snuff  that  the  lake  was  coloured  for  half  a  mile 
round  of  a  deep  brown  tint  whenever  he  sneezed. 
A  little  further  on  is  a  deep  tunnel  of  green 
leaves  down  which  we  looked.  It  leads  to  Ken- 
mure  Castle.  Sweetheart  and  I  always  stop 
just  here  to  dream.  It  seems  as  if  we  could 
stretch  our  arms  and  float  down  into  the  waver- 
ing infinitude  of  stirring  leaves. 

In  another  minute  we  had  come  to  the  summit 
of  the  hill,  and  were  sliding  smoothly  down  the 
long,  cleanly  kept  street  of  New  Galloway.  Not 
a  cur  barked  in  our  track — a  fact  so  remarkable 
that  Sweetheart  asked  why. 

"  Because  New  Galloway  is  a  royal  burgh,"  I 
said  for  a  complete  answer. 

And   Sweetheart,  who  had  so  cavilled  about 


BY    THE   BOGLE-THORxV.  227 

the  curls  on  the  tails  of  the  green  men  on  the 
Bogle-thorn,  accepted  the  reasoning  without  a 
murmur. 

We  passed  the  entrance  to  that  fascinating 
Clatteringshaws  road,  which  leads  through  the 
wildest  scenery  that  can  be  reached  by  wheels 
in  the  south  of  Scotland.  Soon  we  were  steer- 
ing still  northward  along  the  green  holms  of  the 
Ken,  and,  as  we  looked  to  the  west,  the  sun  was 
beeinninof  to  sit  low  on  the  horizon. 

Still  there  appeared  no  Lady  of  the  Work- 
basket  to  greet  us,  and  Sweetheart  began  to  ask 
at  every  half  mile  when  the  meeting  was  to  take 
place.  In  a  trice,  still  going  rapidly,  we  found 
ourselves  climbing  through  Dairy  and  passing 
the  admirable  Lochinvar  Hotel.  We  came  out 
again  presently  on  the  high,  lonely  road  which 
leads  to  Carsphairn.  Rut  alas  !  we  discovered 
that  there  were  two  roads,  and  that  by  either  of 
them  it  was  possible  for  our  erring  relative  to 
arrive. 

"  Which  road  shall  we  take  ? "  was  then  the 
question.     Sweetheart  was  appealed  to,  and  said  : 

"The  one  which  mother  is  coming  by." 
Which  was  arguing  in  a  circle.  So  we  spun 
a  coin.  "  Heads  or  tails  ?  " 


2  28  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

Thereupon  Sweetheart  cried  ''  Both  ! "  very 
loudly  and  decidedly.  But  this  only  still  fur- 
ther complicated  matters.  So  we  had  to  do  it 
all  over  again. 

As  we  are  thus  waiting  a  gentleman  dressed 
like  a  minister  passes,  driving  a  low  pony-phae- 
ton. We  ask  him  if  he  has  seen  a  lady  and  gen- 
tleman. He  says  yes,  and  as  Sweetheart  and  I 
have  every  confidence  in  the  veracity  of  a  minis- 
ter who  keeps  a  pony-carriage,  we  take  the  road 
to  the  rioht. 

Just  as  we  are  going  out  of  sight  the  minister 
turns  round,  and  calls  out  after  us  : 

"  The  lady  and  gentleman  were  going  the 
other  way,  in  a  donkey-cart  /  " 

Our  feelings  are  more  easily  imagined  than 
described.  Indeed,  Sweetheart's  can  neither  be 
imagined  nor  described,  and  the  publisher  per- 
emptorily refuses  to  permit  me  to  express  mine. 
He  says  it  would  be  certain  to  injure  the  sale 
of  the  book.  So  perhaps  the  less  said  the 
better.  Only,  this  minister  had  a  low  pony- 
carriage  and  he  wore  a  low  hat.  Sweetheart 
and  I  decline  to  indicate  the  monosyllabic 
adjective    fitted    to    characterise    his    conduct. 

By  this  time  also  the  shades  of    night  were 


BY    THE   BOGLE-Tf/ORX. 


229 


falling  fast,  and  our  time  to  Allangibbon  Bridge 
beat  the  record.  Finally  I  fell  off  altogether, 
and    left    Sweetheart    to     run     on     by    herself. 


I    LEFT    SWEETHEART   TO    RUN   ON    BY    HERSELF. 


But  that  self-possessed  young  lady  was 
accustomed  to  steer  a  tricycle,  and  so  remained 
perfectly  safe.  Both  my  saddle-springs  had 
snapped    clean    through.     And  thus  we    found 


230  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

ourselves  at  eight  o'clock  of  a  September  night, 
by  the  closest  and  most  favourable  calcu- 
lation, at  least  fourteen  miles  from  home.  More- 
over, there  was  no  sign  of  any  relative  of  ours 
upon  the  horizon  near  or  far.  Of  course  also 
there  was  no  oil  in  our  lamp.  The  wise  virgins 
would  have  claimed  no  kinship  with  us,  but  we 
did  not  care.  For  Sweetheart  said  soothingly  : 
"  Never  mind,  father ;  nobody  shall  touch  you 
while  /am  with  you  !" 

So  I  picked  up  the  broken  saddle,  lifted  down 
Sweetheart  from  her  basket  seat,  and  the  pair  of 
us  sat  down  upon  Allangibbon  Bridge  to  think 
things  over. 

First  of  all  there  arose  the  question  of  pro- 
visions. Sweetheart  possessed  a  piece  of 
chocolate  which  had  worn  gray  and  round  in 
a  little  girl's  pocket.  So  we  halved  that.  Gray 
chocolate  goes  best  with  a  flavour  of  crumbs. 
And  we  ate  it  that  way  with  the  sauce  of 
hunger  and  thankfulness,  as  we  kicked  our 
heels  on  the  bridge  and  looked  up  the  road, 
singing  the  while  at  the  top  of  our  voices, 
"O  where  is  our  wandering  mother  to-night?" 


CHAPTER    XXVIT. 


THE    ROGUE    WITH    THE    LUMINOUS    NOSE. 

E  sat  a  long  time  llnis,  swing- 
ing our  legs  upon  the  bridge. 
The  night  dropped  down  as 
Sweetheart  crept  closer,  inch 
by  inch.  Tlie  wind  came 
whistling  off  the  great  hills 
with  a  kind  of  eerie  sough,  and  the  bushes  in 
the  glen  beneath  us  creaked  and  moaned. 

231 


232  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

"  I  want  to  get  on  your  knee,  father,  the 
water  is  so  lonesome  behind  ! "  she  said. 

It  was  indeed  time  that  we  were  trying  to 
repair  damages  and  return.  For,  as  I  have  al- 
ready said,  we  were  fourteen  miles  from  home, 
and  the  Lady  of  the  Workbasket,  into  whose 
cosy  carriage-wrappings  Sweetheart  was  to  nes- 
tle, seemed  more  difficult  to  meet  with  than  an 
average  African  explorer. 

"  She  must  have  gone  home  before  us  the 
other  way  round,"  said  Sweetheart  lucidly. 
And  I  think  the  water  grew  lonesomer  behind 
her  at  the  thought. 

Finally,  with  a  stout  stick  out  of  the  hedge-root 
for  a  splint,  I  bound,  as  well  I  could,  the  broken 
saddle-springs  down  upon  the  bar.  Sweetheart 
was  once  more  set  firmly  on  her  seat,  and  we 
started. 

At  the  village  of  Dairy  we  laid  in  provisions 
for  our  adventure. 

"  I  wish  this  was  home,"  Sweetheart  said  a 
little  wistfully,  when  we  rode  again  in  among 
the  bright  lights  of  the  shops  and  houses.  But 
I  took  her  into  the  shop  with  me,  and  there  we 
bought  sweetmeats,  biscuits,  and  grapes.  For  I 
knew  that  the  way  would  be  long  without  these. 


THE  ROGUE    WITH    THE   LUMINOUS  NOSE.      233 

Before  leavini;  the  lights  behind  us  and  slipping 
forward  into  the  dusk,  I  wrapped  Sweetheart 
well  about  with  her  shawl  and  set  her  feet  deep 
in  my  coat,  so  that  only  her  face  peeped  out, 
her  eyes  shining  meanwhile  with  the  excite- 
ment. Sweetheart  had  never  been  away  from 
home  so  late  in  all  her  life. 

We  pushed  out  swiftly,  and  in  a  moment  were 
well  past  the  houses  of  the  village.  The  twilight 
shut  gloomily  about  us,  and  it  was  fully  a  mile 
before  our  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  gloom, 
so  that  we  could  be  sure  that  we  were  not  in 
danger  of  running  down  any  fellow-traveller  of 
the  night.  But  strangely  enough,  after  a  little  we 
could  see  more  clearly  than  if  we  had  carried  a 
lamp  with  us.  For  the  road  in  front  was  shin- 
ing with  a  gray,  lucid  light  of  its  own,  and  we 
could  have  seen  a  dog  a  hundred  yards  ahead  of 
us  as  plainly  as  a  blot  on  a  sheet  of  paper. 

Sweetheart's  heart  was  beating  rarely.  I  think 
she  had  not  often  been  so  happy.  The  dark 
hedges  galloped  behind  us.  The  air  soughed 
blithely  in  our  faces  with  the  increased  speed. 
Bier  trees  elided  more  solemnly  to  the  rear,  and 
Sweetheart  settled  herself  down  to  an  enjoy- 
ment wdiich  was  almost  ecstasy. 


234  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

And  I — well,  now  when  I  come  to  think  of  it, 
I  enjoyed  myself  too  going  at  this  rate. 

It  was  not  long  before  we  came  to  the  head 
of  the  long  street  of  New  Galloway.  The  folk 
there  were  all  astir,  though  the  doucer  sort  had 
begun  to  prepare  for  bed. 

Sweetheart  and  I  had  good  ten  miles  before 
us  yet,  so  we  made  the  lights  flit  past  almost 
as  swiftly  as  the  hedges  had  done. 

**  Ho  !  "  cried  a  friendly  policeman,  "  where 
ye  gaun'  that  gait  ?" 

"  It's  a  fine  night,"  I  replied  affably,  as 
though  I  had  been  giving  some  valuable  infor- 
mation. 

"  It  is  that,"  said  the  policeman  dryly,  "  for 
lamps  ! " 

He  had  me  there,  but  he  was  a  kindly  officer. 
Also  he  laughed,  and,  being  satisfied  with  his 
own  very  tolerable  wit,  he  did  not  pursue  either 
the  subject  or  the  culprits.  For  which  Sweet- 
heart and  I  owe  him  five  shillings  and  costs. 

Then  I  told  Sweetheart  of  the  rider  who  was 
once  upon  a  time  seized  by  a  policeman  in  our 
home  district.  He  was  in  our  own  predica- 
ment, in  that  he  carried  no  illuminant  with  him 
except  a  few  lucifer  matches.      But  lighting  upon 


THE  ROGUE    WITH    THE  LUMIXOUS  NOSE.      235 

a  tender-hearted  officer,  the  victim  was  per- 
mitted to  depart  upon  leaving-  a  contribution  of 
five  shillings  to  the  county  authorities.  Of  the 
requisite  silver  coins  he  possessed  but  four,  but 
because  he  had  the  appearance  of  an  honest  man, 
he  was  permitted  to  proceed  upon  his  home- 
ward way  on  giving  a  promise  to  remit  the  odd 
one.  He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  next  day 
the  policeman  received  the  following  letter  : 

"Dear  Bobby  :   Hereivith  one  Bob. 

Yours, 

Robert." 

"  He  should  not  have  said  '  Bob,'  should  he, 
father  ?  "  said  Sweetheart,  at  the  conclusion  of 
this  improving  tale.  "  Nurse  says  that  it  is 
vulgar  to  say  'Bob'  instead  of  shilling,  and 
the  young  lady  in  the  post-office  does  not 
understand  Hugo  if  he  says  'Bob'  when  he 
asks  for  a  shilling's  worth  of  stamps." 

I  cannot  pause  to  argue  upon  the  subject,  for 
we  are  passing  under  the  deepest  arch  of  trees, 
and  it  needs  all  my  attention  to  keep  a  plain 
track  before  us.  Presently  we  emerge  again 
into  the  clearer  liorht.  The  West  beoins  to  ^o\\ 
till  the  stone  dykes  grow  purple,  and  we  can  see 
the  features  of  the  passers-by. 


236  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

And  well  it  is  that  we  do.  For  a  cherry- 
nosed  rascal,  driving  an  omnibus  or  some  other 
towering  conveyance  crowded  with  people, 
charges  straight  upon  us,  in  spite  of  Sweetheart's 
quite  remarkable  performances  on  the  bell  and 
my  loudest  warning  shouts.  He  cracks  his 
whip  menacingly  over  us  as  he  comes,  and  there 
is  nothinor  for  it  but  to  risk  runninor  into  the 
side  of  the  road.  The  Messrs.  Humber  of 
Beeston  may  well  advertise  the  strength  and 
security  of  their  machines,  for,  after  a  dozen 
bumps  and  dives,  shaken  but  safe,  we  come  to 
a  standstill  at  the  foot  of  the  bank. 

Then,  though  naturally  (I  think)  I  may  claim 
to  be  much-enduring,  it  is  no  wonder  that  I 
leaped  off  in  wild  anger  and  rushed  after  the 
scoundrel,  shouting  dire  threats  of  wounds  and 
imprisonment  at  him  for  his  brutality.  I  did 
not,  indeed,  carry  these  out.  But  instead,  I 
shall  set  him  in  the  pillory  here,  in  the  faithful 
chronicle  of  the  travels  of  Sweetheart,  which  will 
do  just  as  well.  It  shames  me  to  think  that 
the  only  instance  of  brutal  treatment  which 
Sweetheart  and  I  met  with,  in  over  two  thou- 
sand miles  of  road-riding,  happened  here  in  the 
very  centre  of  our  own  Galloway. 


THE   ROGUE    IV I r IF    THE   LUMIXOUS  XOSE.      237 

But  I  cannot  believe  that  tlie  blackguard 
can  ha\c  been  a  Galloway  man,  and  that,  at 
least,  is  some  comfort.  And  by  this  sign  shall 
the  traveller  know  him,  that,  like  the  olow- 
worm,  he  carries  a  lantern  on  the  poop.  For 
so  long  as  his  cherry  nose  shines  bright  and 
clear,  he  will  need  no  sideliofhts  to  his  wao-on. 

I  found  that  mv  broken  saddle  had  been  aeain 
jolted  off  its  bearings,  and  needed  to  be  again 
more  firmly  lashed.  But,  in  spite  of  this,  it 
was  no  \ox\\i  time  before  we  were  agfain  ridintr 
southward.  Sweetheart  had  been  perfectly 
brave  in  the  hour  of  danofer.  Never  had  she 
made  a  sound  "when  we  bumped  down  the  bank, 
nor  even  when  she  was  left  alone  while  I  ran 
back  to  take  up  my  testimony  against  mine 
enemy,  the  Rogue  with  the  Luminous  Nose. 
But  just  now  when  it  was  all  over  I  heard  a 
little  sob  beein  in  her  throat  which   threatened 


& 


to  ofrow  into  a  irreater  trouble. 

"There  are  nice  purple  grapes  in  that  bag!" 
I  said  quickly,  with  comfortable  intent,  "  and 
chocolate  in  my  pocket — which  will  you  have. 
Sweetheart  ?  " 

The  curative  properties  of  these  two  have 
never,  I  think,  been  fairly  tested  by  the  faculty — 


238  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

especially  in  juvenile  cases.  After  consideration 
Sweetheart  preferred  the  chocolate  "just  now," 
but  signified  that  she  cherished  no  permanent 
ill-feeling  toward  the  grapes  in  the  bag  on  the 
handle-bar.  Presently  she  took  her  hands  out 
of  the  cloak  and  laid  them  upon  my  wrist. 
They  were  trembling  a  little. 

"  I  wish  I  had  that  rascal  of  a  driver  here," 
I  said,  thinking  aloud,  as  I  felt  her  small  fingers 
quiver, 

"Would  you  give  him  some  grapes  or  some 
chocolate  ?  "    asked  Sweetheart  innocently. 

"  No,  Sweetheart,"  I  replied,  "  that  was  not 
precisely  what  I  w^as  thinking  of  giving  him  !" 

"  What  would  you  give  him  then,  father?" 

"Never  mind!"  said  I.  "Something  that 
he  would  be  much  the  better  of!" 

"  What  a  pity  that  he  is  not  here  to  get  it  !" 
the  maid  replied  wistfully. 

It  was  indeed  a  heart-breaking  pity.  For  the 
present  I  had  in  mind  for  him  of  the  Nose  was 
a  skinful  of  sore  bones,  to  remind  him  of  the 
danger  in  which  he  had  placed  our  Sweetheart, 
and  to  revenge  that  little  quiver  of  her  hands 
upon  my  wrist. 

The   loch  gleamed    in   the   pale   yellow  light 


"  I  LIFTED  A  DOUBLE  HANDFUL  TO  SWEETHEART'S  LIPS." 


THE   ROGUE    WITH    THE   LUMINOUS  NOSE.      24T 

from  the  west,  and  stranofelv  enouiifh  it  i-rew 
lighter  instead  of  darker  as  we  went  on.  We 
crossed  the  Portpatrick  railway  just  at  the  point 
where  it  begins  to  push  forward  into  the  great 
western  wilderness  of  bog  and  boulder.  Soon 
we  plunged  into  the  darker  shades  of  the  woods 
again.  The  light  in  the  west  still  remained 
clear.  Now,  a  short  mile  further  on,  there  is  a 
well  of  purest  water  by  the  roadside.  I  had 
promised  that  sometime  Sweetheart  sliould  have 
a  drink  there.  Often  I  had  told  her  tales  of 
drinking  from  it  when  I  was  no  older  than  she. 
It  lay  in  deep  shadow,  and  when  we  found  it  the 
water  was  cool  and  refreshincj  as  ever.  I  lifted 
a  double  handful  to  Sweetheart's  lips.  I  fear 
indeed  we  both  drank  more  of  it  than  was 
strictly  good  for  us.  But  the  clear,  cold  draught 
in  the  duskiness  of  the  wood  washed  away  all 
unpleasant  memories  of  Rogues  with  Luminous 
Noses. 

From  this  point,  the  time  Sweetheart  and  I 
made  on  our  journey  was  something  remarkable. 
Every  half-mile  we  allowed  ourselves  a  single 
grape,  and  so  busy  were  we  trying  for  the  next 
milestone  that  we  quite  forgot  to  be  frightened 
till  we  had  passed  the  Bogle-thorn.      But  never- 


242  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

theless  Sweetheart  is  quite  sure  that  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  Httle  green  monkeys  that 
always  swing  among  its  branches  after  dark. 
According  to  the  best  authorities,  they  have 
coats  of  sword-g-rass  and  boots  made  out  of  the 
husks  of  hazelnuts. 

In  our  village  street  there  was  quite  a  respect- 
able crowd  out  waiting  for  us  to  arrive,  and 
when  we  came  in,  with  bell  chiming  and  hand- 
kerchiefs flying,  the  popular  acclaim  was  only 
kept  within  bounds  by  the  narrowness  of  the 
road  in  front  of  our  house.  At  one  time  there 
must  have  been  quite  ten  people  present. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Sweetheart,  politely 
and  generally  to  everybody,  "  why  have  you  not 
all  gone  to  bed  ?"  We  whistled  bravely  as  we 
went  in,  for  we  were  culprits  and  knew  it.  But, 
like  all  guilty  consciences,  we  kept  a  bold  front 
and  made  a  oallant  show  of  ease.  And  when 
we  were  made  conscious  of  a  certain  silent  and 
chilling  disapproval  of  our  reckless  courses,  we 
touched  one  another's  hands  sympathetically 
under  the  table  when  nobody  was  looking. 
Thus,  cheered  by  the  companionship  of  guilt. 
Sweetheart  and  I  managed  to  make  a  fairly  good 
suppei  In  spite  of  the  pricks  of  our  consciences. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII, 


HEART    OF    GOLD. 


WE ET HEART  loves  to  go  up- 
on embassies.  Oneday  she  had 
to  run  all  the  way  through  the 
village  and  past  the  old  school- 
house  where  her  father  was  so 
often  thr — I  mean,  where  he  got 
the  good-conduct  medal  and  always  did  what- 
ever the  master  bade  him.     Sweetheart  carried  a 

243 


244  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

letter  with  her,  and  she  went  toward  an  old  farm- 
house nestling  on  a  knoll  among  trees,  where 
there  is  a  pond  and  the  most  beautiful  spiky 
chestnuts.  The  name  of  it  is  Greystone,  and  it 
used  to  be  haunted  when  I  was  a  boy.  Midnight 
apparitions  were  specially  numerous  about  the 
time  when  the  apples  ripened — that  is,  as  soon 
as  you  could  set  your  teeth  fairly  into  one, 
without  immediately  having  to  make  a  face 
which  screwed  your  head  completely  round 
upon  your  neck. 

So  this  haunted  orchard  of  Greystone  was  the 
place  to  which  Sweetheart  was  sent.  And  she 
went  off  right  gaily.  Because,  before  she  went, 
she  had  seen  our  noble  steed  groomed  for  travel, 
and  had  marked  the  delight — the  calm  delight, 
with  which  he  partook  of  his  morning  meal  out 
of  the  crackling  oil-can. 

Sweetheart  therefore  felt  secure  of  a  happy 
day  in  the  saddle,  for  she  could  put  two  and 
two  together  very  well.  So  she  started  off  in 
high  spirits  to  do  her  errand.  Neither  did  she 
stop  to  play  at  Greystone,  though  the  chestnuts 
were  getting  brown,  and  a  lot  of  the  fine  spiky 
ones  lay  among  broad  green  leaves  where  the 
wnnd   of  the    night   before    had    brought    them 


HEART  OF  GOLD.  245 

down.  Sweetheart  knew  that  the  school  child I'en 
would  be  along  the  road  in  an  hour,  and  that 
this  was  her  only  chance  of  gathering-  the  glossy 
brown  marbles.  Yet  she  passed  the  place  with- 
out waiting  to  lift  more  than  she  could  snatch 
without  stopping,  and  thrust  in  passing  into  the 
pockets  of  her  jacket. 

For  the  virtue  of  message-going  consists,  not 
in  the  speed  of  the  outward  journey,  but  in 
the  promptness  of  the  return.  Anybody,  says 
Sweetheart  very  wisely,  can  go  a  message,  but 
not  everybody  can  come  straight  back. 

A  rosy-cheeked,  white-aproned  woman  came 
to  the  door  of  Greystone  in  answer  to  her  timid 
knock.  Sweetheart  spoke  by  the  book  and  de- 
livered the  envelope  with  its  charge  of  round 
heavy  coin  of  the  realm. 

"  Tell  your  mother,  dearie,  that  I  can  let  her 
have  the  eofiTs  and  the  butter,"  said  the  oood- 
wife.  "And  won't  you  come  in  and  sit  down  ? 
I  will  get  you  a  '  piece.'  " 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Sweetheart, 
"but   I   promised  to   run    home   all   the   way." 

And  so,  all  "  pieceless,"  she  turned  and  tripped 
down  tlie  crfeen  loaninor  with  her  messaoi^e.  She 
lilted  ancl   sano-  o-ailv  as  she  went.      And  as  she 


246  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

danced  along  a  burnside  part  of  the  way,  the 
water  lilted  and  sang  and  danced  also  for  joy  to 
see  so  bright  a  thing. 

But,  meanwhile,  at  home  the  tricycle  had  been 
brought  to  the  door  and  stood  winking  in  the 
sun,  expectant  of  passengers.  Hugo  was  play- 
ing with  his  horses,  and  had  just  fed  them  all 
three  with  the  same  handful  of  grass.  This 
being  finished,  he  looked  about  for  something 
else  to  do,  which  would  be  equally  satisfactory 
and  economical.  His  eyes  fell  wistfully  upon 
the  tricycle. 

"Would  you  like  a  little  ride  in  Sweetheart's 
seat?"'  I  said,  watching  his  longing  and  linger- 
ing gaze. 

For  Hueo  had  as  yet  been  counted  of  too 
tender  years  to  be  set  upon  that  seat  of  honour 
and  danger.  Pleasure  gleamed  instantly  respon- 
sive in  the  boy's  eye.  He  threw  down  his  whip 
and  the  handful  of  hay  which  had  already  done 
such  signal  service  to  his  stud.  In  a  moment 
we  were  in  the  saddle  and  wheeling  slowly  and 
circumspectly  through  the  village  street.  As  we 
passed  the  garden  gate,  Hugo  waved  his  hand 
to  an  old  man  digging  potatoes.  He  responded 
with  a  gay  flourish  of  his  fork,  and  then  stood 


HUGO   WAS   PLAYING   WITH    HIS    HORSES. 


HEART  OF  GOLD.  249 

leaning  upon   the    handle   to   \vatch   us   out   of 
sicrht. 

Down  the  road  we  went,  past  the  schoolhouse 
in  which  father  was  thr — got  the  medal,  I  mean, 
and  then  wheeling  still  onward  by  the  old 
smiddy  where  the  ancient  well  of  sweet  water  is. 

Suddenly  round  the  corner  toward  us  tripped 
Sweetheart,  dancing  light-foot  homeward,  ex- 
pectant of  certain  delight,  and  singing  with  all 
her  mioht. 

But  so  soon  as  she  saw  us  the  song  stopped 
as  if  by  magic,  and  she  walked  a  little  slower. 
Presently,  however,  she  came  running  toward  us 
faster  than  ever. 

"  I  am  so  orlad  dear  Hucjo  is  grettinor  a  ride  ! 
I  am  so  very  glad  dear  Hugo  is  getting  a  ride 
with  father  !  "  she  cried. 

Huofo  waved  to  her  with  his  hand  a  litile  con- 
descendingly.  But  he  was  so  much  occupied 
keeping  his  seat,  and  so  greatly  elated  with  tlie 
importance  of  his  position,  that  he  had  no  time 
to  say  anything. 

Sweetheart  turned,  forgetting  a  little,  I  fear, 
about  going  quite  straight  home  with  her 
message. 

"  I  will  just  run   alongside,"  she  said,  "  I  can 


250  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

run  so  fast.  See,  father,  how  fast  I  can  run. 
You  won't  leave  your  Sweetheart  behind,  will 
you,  father  ?  " 

And  her  little  feet  pattered  right  determinedly 
alone  the  road.  Sweetheart  was  now  runninor 
all  she  could.  For  though,  stupidly  enough,  I 
did  not  know  it  then,  she  was  trying  to  keep 
down  the  trouble  rising  in  her  heart. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  Hugo  sitting  in  my 
place — so  very  glad  !"  she  panted.  "  It  is  nice 
for  dear  Hu^o  to  get  a  ride." 

She  ran  close  alongside,  waving  her  hand  at 
him  and  smilingly  pitifully  all  the  time.  I  might 
have  seen,  if  I  had  thought  of  looking,  that  her 
eyes  were  brimming.  It  was  the  warm,  quickly 
beating  little  heart  which  was  pumping  some- 
thing up  into  them.  But  with  crass,  grown-up 
stupidity  I  took  no  heed. 

Presently  the  wheels  began  to  spin  a  little 
faster,  for  we  were  running  down  a  little  hill. 
We  were  beginning  unconsciously  to  draw  away 
from  the  little  red-capped  runner.  The  twink- 
ling legs  could  really  not  be  made  to  move  any 
faster,  though  very  manfully  Sweetheart  still 
tried   to  keep   abreast   of  us. 

"I   am  so  olad  " — we  could  hear  the  broken 


HEART  OF  GOLD.  251 

accents,  full  of  childish   love  and  goodwill,  [)ur- 
suincr  us — "  so  orlad  dear  Hucro  is  ^^ettinsr  a  ride." 

We  shot  ahead  quite  rapidly  now  toward  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  and  once  round  the  turn  we 
would  be  out  of  sight.  But  wIhmi  the  poor 
Sweetheart  saw  that  she  could  not  possibly  keep 
up  with  us  any  longer,  suddenly  something 
went  snap  in  the  brave  little  breast,  and  she 
threw  herself  down  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
crying  as  though  her  heart  had  been  broken. 

It  had  been  too  hard  a  trial.  Her  seat  was 
filled.  We  were  going  out  of  her  sight  without 
a  word.  She  had  done  her  best  to  rejoice  in 
another's  joy,  but  she  could  not  bear  to  be  alto- 
gether left  behind.  And  so — and  so,  that  is 
how  it  happened.  In  a  moment  or  two  Hugo 
and  I  were  back,  but  the  mischief  was  done.  I 
lifted  the  little  one. 

"  Sweetheart,  Sweetheart,"  I  said,  "  what  is 
this — why  are  you  crying  like  this  ?" 

"  I  am  not  crying,"  she  protested,  though  the 
big  drops  were  falling  thick  and  making  each  a 
little  round  ball  on  the  dusty  road,  "  I  am  not 
crying.  It  is  only  because  I  am  go  glad  dear 
Huoo  is  eettinir  a  ride.  But — but  I  thought  I 
was  not  to  be  father's  little  'panion  aii)-  more." 


252  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

This  is  a  sad  tale  and  it  ends  here.  The  chief 
engineer  had  a  warm  coat  upon  his  back  as 
he  rode  up  the  village  street  with  Sweetheart 
and  Hugo  both  before  him — as  it  were,  "three 
upon  one  pony."  But  he  richly  deserved  it. 
For,  quite  ignorantly  and  like  a  man,  he  had 
been  trying, a  loyal  little  heart  just  one  peg  too 
high.  Now  Sweetheart  has  risen  to  the  dignity 
of  having  a  tricycle  of  her  own,  and  though 
Hugo  (or  even  Baby  Brother)  rides  sometimes 
in  the  old  wheezy  basket-seat  between  the  horn 
handles,  Sweetheart  does  not  mind,  for  she  has 
never  ceased  to  be  "father's  little  panion." 
Nor  is  it  likely  that  she  ever  will. 


^  ■^-■■' ' 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 


CRIMINALS    IN    HIDING. 


T  was  a  day  or  two  after  the  lit- 
tle tragedy  mentioned  in  the  last 
chapter  had  been  forgotten. 
Sweetheart  waso-oinof  with  her 
father  to  see  the  old  farmhouse 
on  the  edge  of  the  moors,  where 
for  many  a  day  he  had  played  as  a  boy.  There 
were  many  things  to  be  seen  there.  A  score 
of  fascinating  stories,  legends,  romances,   were 

253 


254  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

that  day  to  find  a  local  habitation  and  a  name. 
Sweetheart  had  been  awake  since  earliest  day- 
break, thinking-  about  it. 

It  was  the  hottest  mid-noon  when  we  arrived 
at  the  edge  of  the  hillside  of  heather  and 
rocks  popularly  called  the  Duchrae  Craigs — 
which,  after  all,  is  only  saying  the  same  thing 
twice  over.  For,  as  even  Sweetheart  knows, 
"  Duchrae  "   just   means    Black   Crag. 

"  Was  this  exactly  where  you  played  at 
'Pilgrim's  Progress,'  father?"  said  Sweet- 
heart, with  whom  the  tale  is  a  favourite 
one. 

"It  was." 

"  And  were  you  Apollyon,  father,  and  Vv'here 
did  you  stand  ?  " 

The  spot  was  pointed  out.  It  seemed  now 
an  insignificant  knoll.  Then  I  considered  it 
little  inferior  in   real  eminence  to  Mont  Blanc. 

"  And  did  you  indeed  beat  Christian  and 
Faithful   and   make   them  roar  for  mercy?" 

Sadly  I  had  to  reply  that  such  were  the  facts 
of  the  case.  Indeed  two  small  boys  had  usually 
to  be  heavily  bribed  to  enact  these  parts.  And 
if  the  "  Pilgrim's  Prooress  "  had  been  written 
from  the   facts  of   that  campaign,  it  would  have 


CRIMINALS  IN  HIDING.  255 

been    an    infinitely    shorter    book.       Also    there 
would  have  been    no  sequel. 

"  And  where  was  it,"  Sweetheart  went  on, 
"  that  you  threw  stones  into  the  water  for  Dog 
Royal  to  dive  after?" 

This  spot  also  was  pointed  out.  It  is  a  sharply 
sloping  bank  of  gravel  and  sand  by  the  lochside. 

"  Was  it  not  very  kind  of  the  master  to  give 
you  leave  to  stay  here  all  day,  and  throw  stones 
into  the  water  instead  of  going  to  school  ?" 

For  the  sake  of  discipline,  I  had  to  climb 
round  the  corner  of  this  interrogation. 

"  And  your  people  at  home  must  have  been 
very  glad,  that  you  were  so  kind  as  to  make 
Royal  a  clean  dog  by  sending  him  in  swimming 
every  day  ? " 

I  took  a  flying  leap  over  this  one.  The  folks 
at  home  certainly  ought  to  have  been  both  glad 
and  proud  of  my  cleanly  habits.  Probably  they 
were.  Only,  you  see,  they  certainly  never  men- 
tioned it.  Indeed,  at  least  at  the  time,  they 
did  not  quite  take  Sweetheart's  view  of  such 
aquatic  sports.  Even  the  best  people  have  their 
prejudices. 

"And  where  was  it  that  you  were  standing  when 
you  broke  the  kitchen  window  with  your  sling?" 


256  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

"  Did  I  do  that,  Sweetheart — surely  you  must 
have  been  mistaken  ?  "  I  interrupted  with  some 
alarm.  For  when  the  next  slino-  mania  seizes 
our  neighbourhood,  I  am  likely  to  hear  of  this 
again.  It  seemed  best,  therefore,  to  take  time 
by  the  forelock  and  deny,  or  at  least  query, 
the  allegation. 

But  Sweetheart  suddenly  waxed  very  eager 
and  very  positive — even  argumentative,  which, 
in  woman,  is  worse. 

"Yes,  indeed  !  "  she  cried.  "  Uncle  Willie  said 
you  did  ! " 

"  Well  then,  Sweetheart,"  I  replied  judicially, 
"  if  I  did  break  the  window,  I  have  no  doubt  that 
I  was  very  soundly  and  very  properly  beaten 
for  it !  " 

I  considered  that  I  had  saved  myself  rather 
well  that  time. 

"  Oh,  but,"  said  small  Miss  Pertinacity,  "  Uncle 
Willie  says  you  never  were  beaten.  He  says 
that  you  ran  and  hid  in  the  barn  instead,  and 
made  faces  at  everybody  through  the  portholes, 
where  they  couldn't  get  at  you.  I  wish  we  had 
a  barn  like  that !  " 

What  a  dreadful  thing  it  is  to  be  afflicted  with 
over-communicative  uncles — men  who,  in  hours 


CRIMINALS  IN  HIDING.  257 

of  ease,  think  nothing  of  giving  you  away  tc 
your  own  children  !  How  is  discipline  to  be 
kept  up  in  a  household  where  the  children  have 
visions  perpetually  before  them,  of  the  head  of 
the  house  putting  out  a  contumelious  tongue  at 
his  elders  and  betters  through  the  triangular 
wicket  of  a  barn  ? 

But  something  had  to  be  done,  or  worse  might 
happen. 

I  resolved  to  treat  the  question  brutally,  or  at 
least  heavy-parentally. 

"  Now,  look  here.  Sweetheart,"  I  said,  with 
lowering  countenance  and  a  quite  portentous 
frown,  "  it  does  not  matter  a  bit  what  Uncle 
William,  or  any  other  uncle  or  aunt,  says  I  did 
when  I  was  little.  Uncles  talk  a  great  deal  of 
nonsense;  especially  those  who  have  no  children 
of  their  own  to  bring  up.  But  if  I  catch  you 
pulling  faces  at  anybody  out  of  the  barn " 

"  We  haven't  got  any  barn,"  interjected  Sweet- 
heart, "  only  a  carriage-house — and  a  pigsty,  but 
no  pig." 

"  Well,  anyway,"  I  replied,  "  if  I  catch  you 
making  faces  at  anybody  out  of  anywhere,  do 
you  know  what  would  happen  ?  " 

And  I  frowned  a  frown  which  ought  to  have 


258  .        SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

been  very  terrible.  Sweetheart  looked  down  at 
the  ground,  and  I  thought  she  was  duly  im- 
pressed. So  I  said  more  gently,  "  You  know 
what  I  should  have  to  do,  Sweetheart?"  And 
I  shook  my  head  sadly,  to  indicate  a  chain  of 
tragic,  almost  fatal  consequences. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sweetheart  sweetly,  "  you  would 
have  to  lauijh." 

It  was  no  use  pursuing  the  subject  further, 
after  this.  But  I  made  a  mark  on  my  cuff  to 
remind  me  to  gfive  Uncle  William  the  benefit 
of  a  "  few  words"  that  very  night. 

"  Now  I  should  like,"  Sweetheart  went  on,  "to 
go  down  to  the  bridge  and  see  where  you  used 
to  wade  on  washing  days.  And  the  place  where 
you  caught  the  big  trout,  as  long  as  your  arm — 
and  the  pool  where  you  fell  in  and  they  had  to 
hook  you  out  with  a  hay-fork  in  your  waist-band 
behind.  They  could  not  do  that  so  easy  now; 
could  they,  father  ?  " 

It  is,  alas  !  too  true.  But  I  think  Sweetheart 
might  have  alluded  to  the  fact  more  gracefully. 
I  never  speak  in  that  slighting  way  about  her. 

However,  since  it  was  clearly  necessary  to  see 
all  these  places,  we  walked  down  slowly  to  the 
waterside.       We    passed     through    a    beautiful 


CRIMIXALS  IN  HIDING.  259 

mead  oversfrown  with  Oueen  of  the  IMeadow 
and  Clown's  All-heal.  And  when  we  came  to 
the  edge,  lo  !  there  before  ns,  remembered  like  a 
part  of  another  life,  was  the  unforgotten  island 
a  little  way  north  of  the  bridge.  Tall  bushes  of 
the  Greater  Willow  Herb  were  wavincr  crimson 
and  purple  upon  it,  and  the  cool,  clear  loch 
water  soughing  and  clattering  over  the  pebbles 
beneath  it,  just  as  they  had  done  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ago. 

Presently  we  came  to  a  most  fascinating  little 
ford,  with  the  most  practicable  and  delightsome 
stepping-stones  in  the  world. 

There  is  one  great  stone  in  the  middle,  with 
all  sorts  and  sizes  of  smaller  ones  bending  away 
from  it  on  either  side.  These,  except  in  very 
high  floods,  serve  admirabl\'  to  convey  the  way- 
farer over  to  the  ])retty  little  cottage  in  the 
wood,  which  is  such  a  paradise  of  rest  and  re- 
treat to  those  who  do  not  mind  the  midges  in 
summer. 

I  looked  down,  and  lo  !  I  saw  the  bottom  of 
the  ford  covered  with  softest  moss  and  a  little 
green-starred  water-plant.  I  could  remember 
the  very  touch  of  them  upon  my  feet  when  I 
used  to  wade  there  so  lono-  a^jo. 


26o  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

"Can  I  take  off  my  shoes  and  paddle?" 
pleaded   Sweetheart  wistfully. 

I  knew  she  ought  not.  But,  after  all,  it  was 
a  fine  day,  and  I  wanted  very  much  to  do  it  my- 
self. So  we  stripped  in  company,  and  with 
many  shriekings  and  much  splashing  we  spent 
a  long  hour,  which  lengthened  imperceptibly 
into  two,  grappling  as  of  old  for  loch  pearls  and 
"  guddling  for  bairdies."  Our  success  was  not 
what  could  be  called  phenomenal,  but  at  least 
we  got  most  delightfully  wet.  And  after  all, 
that  is  the  main  thing.  Never  once  did  we  think 
of  what  would  be  said  to  us  when  we  got  home. 

All  in  a  moment  a  happy  thought  leaped  up 
in  my  mind  like  a  trout   in  the  pool  below  : 

"  Don't  let's  tell  at  all  !  " 

In  a  moment  Sweetheart  and  I  had  become 
companions  in  infamy.  Our  several  knicker- 
bockers were  wet.  Our  caps  had  fallen  into  the 
water  and  were  sopping.  I  cannot  even  remem- 
ber the  names  of  half  the  things  belonging  to 
Sweetheart  which  were  wringing  wet.  But  what 
matter?  Was  there  ever  such  a  day,  so  bright 
a  sun,  so  green  a  grass,  such  clear,  cool  waters  ? 

"  I  almost  feel  the  heat  bringing  out  the 
freckles,"  said  Sweetheart,  whose  greatest  aim 


CRIMINALS  IN  HIDING.  261 

in  life  is  to  be  freckled  like  the  o^irl  she  saw  in 
the  hay-held  the  other  day.  She  has  worn  her 
cap  pushed  very  much  on  the  back  of  her  head 
ever  since — "on  purpose,"  as  she  says. 

How  near  the  flowers  are  !  Sweetheart  and  I 
seem  somewhere  about  the  same  age — possibly 
Sweetheart  may  have  a  trillc  the  advantage  of 
me. 

Then  we  went  back  through  the  meadow  again 
and  so  out  upon  the  road,  carrying  all  of  the 
wet  thinos  we  dared  take  off  without  risk  of  be- 

O 

ing  apprehended  by  the  authorities  (if  there  are 
such  things  about  Loch  Grenoch).  Sweetheart 
had  her  stockings  round  her  neck.  Over  her 
shoulders  she  carried  mine,  which  hung  down 
nearly  to  the  ground.  I  was  diligently  engaged 
in  pushing  the  tricycle.  Sweetheart  meanwhile 
padded  rapturously  along  in  the  warm,  white 
sunshine,  sometimes  stopping  to  rub  one  foot 
over  the  other,  and  sometimes  burying  both  in 
the  hot,  delicious  dust. 

If  heaven  is  anything  like  this.  Sweetheart  is 
p^oinof  to  be  a  good  oirl  "  from  now  rioht  on." 
So  she  says. 

But  just  then  we  heard  the  sound  of  a  horse's 
feet.       We    looked    guiltily    at     one     another. 


2  62  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

Were  we  to  be  caught  in  the  very  act  ?  Hastily 
we  pushed  the  tricycle  into  an  empty  stone- 
breaker's  stance  cut  deep  into  the  edge  of  the 
wood.  And  then  we — well,  we  walked  with 
dignity  and  calmness  into  the  shelter  of  the 
forest. 

No,  certainly  not.  What  an  idea  !  We  did  ;^?^/ 
run  and  hide.  That  would  have  been  a  hasty 
and  improper  description  of  our  movements, 
though  I  admit  that  our  retreat  looked  a  good 
deal  like  it.  But  mere  unbalanced  judgments 
from  circumstantial  evidence  oueht  never  to  be 
expressed  publicly.  They  are  apt  to  be  danger- 
ous as  well  as  misleadino-. 

It  was  a  pony-carriage  which  came  trundling 
round  the  corner.  In  it  sat  the  Lady  of  the 
Workbasket. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  the  tricycle  she  pulled  up. 

We  could  see  her  looking  everywhere  about 
for  us.  We  could  even  hear  what  she  was 
saying  : 

"  They  must  have  gone  up  into  the  wood  for 
blackberries.  They  are  trying  to  surprise  me 
by  bringing  home  a  lot.  How  like  them,  and 
how  kind  !  " 

Sweetheart  and  I  blushed  for  very  shame.    But 


CRIMINALS  IX  IIIDIXG.  26? 


J 


the  case  was  too  bad  to  be  bettered  b\-  makino- 
a  discovery  and  confession  now.  Presently  the 
Lad\'  of  the  Workbasket  tied  a  little  knot  of 
ribbon  to  the  handle-bar  to  let  us  know  that  she 
had  been  there,  and  drove  on  her  way. 

Sweetheart  and  I  looked  long  at  one  another. 
We  sat  thus  indeed,  hardly  speaking,  till  most 
of  our  apparel  was  dry  enough  to  put  on.  Then 
we  said,  "  We  unist  find  these  blackberries  now." 

And  after  a  long  search  we  did  a  capful,  and 
a  pocketful,  and  a  handkerchief-ful. 

When  at  last  we  got  home,  they  said,  "  What 
has  kept  you  so  long  ? " 

Then  w^e  smiled  at  one  another  and  said 
nothing.  We  meant  to  keep  on  doing  just 
that. 

But  when  she  came  home,  and  before  she  saw 
our  treasure-trove,  the  Lady  of  the  Workbasket 
said  kindly,  "  You  stopped  to  gather  black- 
berries in  the  Duchrae  Bank  for  to-morrow's 
pudding.      But  I  won't  tell  you  how  I  know  !" 

Then  Sweetheart  and  I  had  the  grace  to 
blush  again  and  yet  again.  But  all  the  same  we 
never  told  what  we  had  really  been  doing.  And 
even  now  we  beof  that  it  be  considered  a  dead 
secret. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 


I    ENJOY    QUIET. 

T  lias  been  remarked  that,  consid- 
ering her  size,  Sweetheart  occu- 
pies a   considerable  space  in  the 
chronicle  of  many  lives.      But  I 
J   found  out  quite  accidentally  the 
other    day  that   Hugo  and    she 
occupied  a  good  deal  more  space  than  I  thought. 
It  was  noble  seaside  weather,  and  they  were 
at  the  seaside.      There  were  three  of  them,  all 
with  given  names. 

These    names    are  Slim  Jim,    Fat  Jack,  and 
the   Dutchman. 

264 


/  ENJOY  QUIET.  265 

"For,"  said  Sweetheart,  "it  is  only  natural 
that  we  should  have  different  names  at  the  sea- 
side.     Everything  is  quite  different  there." 

Sweetheart's  seaside  name  is  Slim  Jim,  for 
reasons  which  easily  commend  themselves  when 
you  see  her  in  her  bathing  suit.  The  name  of 
"  Fat  Jack"  is,  however,  considered  something 
of  a  libel  upon  Sir  Hugo. 

"  But,"  as  Sweetheart  says  again,  "  bless  you, 
Hugo  does  not  mind  what  you  call  him,  so 
long  as  he  can  drive  his  horses  and  dig  in  the 
sand." 

And  the  Dutchman  is  just  Lord  Baby  Brother 
in  a  Panama  hat  and  a  bathinor  suit  drawn  over 
his  other  thinor.s  and  tied  round  his  neck  with 

o 

a  strino- — a  orood  costume  for  one  who  does  not 
so  much  dis^  in  the  sand  as  orrovel  and  burrow 
in  it. 

These  are  the  true  explanations  of  the  sea- 
side names  of  Sweetheart's  family.  But,  alas  ! 
I  was  not  there  to  see.  I  had  been  left  behind 
in  order  that  in  peace  and  quietness  I  might  be 
able  to  tickle  the  fretful  typewriter  to  some  pur- 
pose— at  least,  so  far  as  covering  a  certain  num- 
ber of  sheets  of  paper  was  concerned. 

But   I  found,  instead   of  the   "quiet"  having 


266  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

a  good  effect  upon  the  imagination  it  had  just 
the  reverse.  Out  here  in  the  domed  wooden 
structure,  where  in  the  summer  season  I  am  wont 
to  write  all  day  with  open  windows,  the  noise 
of  the  "quiet"  grows  appalling.  I  find  my- 
self stopping  and  leaning  forward  to  listen  with- 
out rhyme  or  reason. 

"Ah,"  I  say  to  myself,  "I  can  hear  them — 
they  are  coming  along  the  lower  walk.  Young 
vagabonds,  they  will  soon  be  setting  up  a  fine 
racket  here — playing  at  '  tig '  likely,  or  singing 

"  '  Who  goes  round  my  house  this  night  ? 
Who  but  Bloody  Tow  ?  '  " 

And  for  a  moment  I  feel  a  little  quiver  of 
apprehension.  For  though  I  have  not  the 
personal  acquaintance  of  "  Bloody  Tom,"  yet 
the  vision  of  him  perambulating  round  my 
house  at  night  never  fails  to  fill  me  with 
respect. 

I  find  myself  waiting  for  the  song  to  begin. 
But  somehow  it  does  not  come.  I  begin  to  ask 
myself  why — a  little  nervously,  too,  for  the 
rascals  may  have  made  up  a  ploy  to  steal 
quietly  upon  me  and  yell  simultaneously  at  the 


/  ENJOY  QUIET.  267 

door — a  pleasing  habit  which  ass.sts  composi- 
tion wonderfull)-.* 

So  I  sit  waiting  for  that  yell  and  thinking  of 
how  I  shall  rush  out  upon  them,  and  of  all  the 
terrible  things  I  shall  say  and  do  when  I  have 
captured  them.  For  I  cannot  abide  such  prac- 
tices. They  are  upsetting  and  discomposing  to 
every  vv ell-regulated  mind. 

Why  does  not  that  yell  come  ? 

I  declare  I  forgot — they  are  all  at  the  seaside, 
and  I  am  enjoying  a  blessed  quiet. 

I  remember  "blessed"  was  the  word  used 
when  the  thing  was  first  proposed. 

Then  I  continue  thinkintr  how  much  I  am 
enjoying  the  cessation  from  interruption  and 
noise  till,  finally,  I  grow  restless.  Even  the 
relaxation  of  killing  the  procession  of  wasps 
which,  marching  through  my  writing  chllet, 
takes  fifteen  hours  to  pass  a  given  point,  begins 
to  pall  a  little  upon  me. 

In  the  courtyard  everything  is  sound  asleep 
in  the  sun.  The  tricycle  stands  stiff  and  prim 
as  if  it  were  in  a  window  for  exhibition.  Sweet- 
heart's little  wicker  chair  looks  down  at  me 
from  a  hieh   shelf    in   the   carriao^e-house   with 

*  The  patent  has  been  applied  for. 


268  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

a  sob  in  its  throat.  Some  people  may  laugh 
and  say  that  a  wicker  chair  which  fits  on  to 
a  tricycle  with  screw-nuts  could  not  possibly 
have  a  sob  in  its  throat.  I  know  the  kind  of 
people  who  say  such  things — know  them  well. 
And  to  tell  the  plain,  honest  truth  I  would  not 
give  twopence-ha'penny  (2}4d.)  a  dozen  for 
them. 

So  I  turned  away  quickly  from  the  carriage- 
house  because — well,  because  I  am  enjoying  the 
quiet  so  much — for  no  other  reason  in  the  world. 

There  is  a  pleasant  runnel  of  water  which 
falls  pattering  into  a  bucket  by  the  old  stable. 
It  never  stops  summer  and  winter.  It  is  the 
same  spring  which  saved  us  all  from  perishing 
of  thirst  durinor  the  lone  four-months'  frost  last 
year.  And  now,  in  the  very  deepest  heart  of 
summer,  it  goes  on  just  the  same,  falling  into 
the  pail  with  a  pleasant  sound  of  plashing 
waters.  I  go  around  the  corner  to  look  at  it. 
Everything  is  spick  and  span.  The  pail  into 
which  the  runnel  falls  is  brightly  scoured.  There 
are  no  stones  filling  it  half-way,  as  is  usual  when 
our  gipsy  tribes  are  at  home.  The  little  drain 
which  takes  the  waste  away  is  not  choked  with 
hay.     No  wooden  horse,  with  a  waggon  precari- 


/  ENJOY  QUIET.  269 

ously  attached  by  a  piece  of  whipcord,  and  a 
dolly  driver  with  her  head  resting  on  the  horse's 
tail,  is  to  be  seen  waiting  for  a  drink,  with  the 
water  soaking  down  the  coachman's  back. 

How  peaceful  and  proper  everything  is ! 
Every  stone  of  the  gravel  is  in  its  right  place. 
I  thought  of  the  last  time  I  came  round  that 
corner,  and  of  how,  seated  peacefully  at  my 
work,  I  had  been  startled  by  a  noise  like  the 
concerted  roarinof  of  all  the  bulls  of  Bashan.  I 
remembered  how  I  went  out,  somewhat  hastily, 
and  there,  in  the  court  below,  whom  should  I  find 
but  Sweetheart  and  Hugo  soaked  to  the  eyes, 
splashing  each  other  w4th  water,  and  shrieking 
wnth  savaee  delight  at  each  fresh  achievement. 
The  pail  lay  overturned.  The  water  made  a 
kind  of  Lodore  Cataract  over  it,  before  running 
in  a  broad  stream  down  the  path  and  across  the 
road. 

I  wish  I  could  state  that  my  sudden  appear- 
ance and  stern  demeanour  struck  terror  into 
the  hearts  of  the  young  barbarians.  But,  alas  ! 
the  contrary  w^as  the  case.  There  came  a  yet 
louder  yell,  and  "  Hurrah  !  here's  father!"  they 
shouted.  "  Come  on  and  be  splashed,  father. 
It's  such  fun  !  " 


270  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

All  our  maiden  aunts  are  sure  that  we  do  not 
bring  up  our  children  properly  or  such  a  thing 
could  not  happen.  It  shows  that  something  is 
very  far  wrong  somewhere. 

Now,  however,  I  go  away  and  leave  the  water 
falling  lonesomely  and  correctly  into  the  pail. 
There  are  no  Lodore  Cataracts  any  more.  The 
trough  always  keeps  its  right  side  up  when  the 
savage  tribes  are  at  the  seaside.  I  go  to  the 
high  garden  in  order  to  walk  and  smoke,  and 
also  to  think  how  much  I  am  enjoying  this 
blessed  quiet.  Yes,  "blessed  quiet"  were  the 
words  I  used.     What  else  could  one  say  ? 

But  as  I  saunter  sedately  along  the  paths  and 
think  things  over,  it  seems  to  me  that  Sweet- 
heart and  Hugo  never  did,  in  all  their  lives,  any- 
thing to  give  their  parents  a  moment's  uneasi- 
ness. Surely,  it  can  never  have  been  the  case 
that  a  dozen  times  a  day  somebody  has  had  to 
rebuke  them— generally  with  the  tongue,  some- 
times otherwise — for  pieces  of  perfectly  gratui- 
tous mischief.  It  must  be  some  other  children 
I  have  been  thinkinor  about.  Ah  !  here  is  the 
seat  over  which,  when  I  was  meditating  a  beauti- 
fully moral  passage  for  a  monthly  agricultural 
journal,  Hugo  suddenly  sprang  out  of  the  bushes 


/  ENJOY  QUIET.  271 

upon   111)'  l)ack  ;  so   suddenly  that   I    forgot   all 
about  it.      And  the  world  lost — ah,  how  nuich  ? 
But  what  a  distracting  noise  these  wretched 
bees   make,  buzzing  and    humming  among  the 
flowers.     Stranoe  that  I  never  noticed  them  be- 

o 

fore  when  Sweetheart  and  Hufjo  were  scara- 
mouchincr  hither  and  thither  amonor  the  flower- 
beds  with  such  a  pother  and  din  that  at  last  old 
Grim  rose  and  walked  out  of  the  garden  and 
into  his  kennel  in  dignified  protest. 

How  loud  all  the  clocks  are  striking!  And 
how  many  we  seem  to  have  of  them  !  I  declare 
I  can  hear  half  a  dozen  of  them,  sitting  here  at 
my  desk,  though  the  house  is  a  good  fifty  yards 
away.  One  might  just  as  well  live  next  door 
to  a  tinsmith's.  I  never  heard  them  clancrinQr 
like  this  before.  A  rook — (hang  all  natura- 
lists, I  ivill  say  a  crow),  a  crow  lights  on  the 
nearest  post  of  the  drying-green,  and  remarks  : 
"  Croak  !  "  in  a  voice  as  sudden  and  loud  as  an 
explosion.  He  too  makes  me  jump  in  my  chair, 
and  disarranoes  a  whole  train  of  the  finest  ideas 
in  the  world — which,  no  saving-,  mio-ht  have 
made  me  famous  in  the  Midland  Counties. 

The  black,  hard-favoured,  gap-feathered  knave 
dared   not   have  done   as   much,  had   Sir  Hugo 


2  72  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

been  on  hand  with  his  "  bow-n'  arrow"  and 
other  deadly  weapons  of  offence. 

But  after  all,  am  I  not  enjoying  a  blessed 
quiet  ?  That  at  least  is  a  great  consolation. 
Just  then  it  strikes  me  that  perhaps  I  am  not 
justified  in  keeping  so  much  pleasure  to  myself? 
I  cannot  believe  that  I  am,  when  I  come  to  con- 
sider the  matter.  Let  me  see.  There  is  a  train 
to  the  seaside  at  twelve.  I  shall  just  be  in  time 
to  catch  them  all  on  the  beach  before  they  come 
in  for  tea. 

I  have  certainly  enjoyed  the  quiet  immensely. 
But  I  do  not  consider  it  a  fair  or  an  honourable 
thing  to  keep  all  this  enjoyment  to  myself.  It 
is  in  fact  distinctly  selfish.  So  I  am  going  in  to 
pack  my  bag. 

"  Then  sing  Hey  !  sing  Ho  !  for  the  ships  that  go. 
For  the  twelve  o'clock  train 
That  takes  me  amain 
To  Slim  Jim ^  Fat  Jack,  and  the  Dutch i/ian." 

At  this  point  I  dance  out  with  my  hands  in 
my  pockets,  singing  this  beautiful  poem  to  the 
tune  of  the  "  Old  Hundred,"  which  is  the  only 
one  I  know. 

•  •  •  •  • 

"  Well,  Sweetheart,  do  you  like  the  seaside. or 


/  ENJOY  QUIET.  273 

home  best?"  I  remarked  when  I  got  there.  I 
felt  exceedingly  pleased  with  my  self-sacrifice 
when  I  saw  them  all  together  on  the  sands.  I 
did  not  even  stop  to  wash  my  face  before  coming 
down.  This  I  did  because  it  seemed  almost  an 
insult  to  wash  one's  face  in  a  basin,  in  the 
presence  of  the  mighty  ocean  just  out  of  the 
window. 

"  I  like  home  for  steady — here  for  a  while  ! " 
replied  Sweetheart,  as  briefly  as  she  could,  and 
yet  judiciously. 

"/  like  home  best  always!"  cried  Hugo 
eagerly,  one  part  for  truth,  and  nine  for  contra- 
dictiousness.  Huoo  is  ooincr  to  be  a  critic — or 
else  an  enorine-driver,  and  earn  his  livino-  honestly. 

"Why  do  you  like  home  best?"  I  said, 
watchinof   him  dicrcfinof  a  bior  hole  in  the  sand. 

"  Oh,  he  just  says  it !  "  said  Sweetheart,  with 
brisk  off-handness. 

"  Well,  I  do  like  home  best ! "  persisted 
Hugo,  who  knew  the  strength  of  simply  sticking 
to  his  guns  without  explanation  or  theory,  which 
are  apt  to  confuse. 

"  But  the  sea,  Hugo,"  I  pointed  out  to  him  ; 
"we  have  not  the  sea  at  home  ?" 

Hugo  paused,  and  leaned  upon  his  spade  as 


2  74  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

he  has  seen  our  old  gardener  do,  when  I  stop 
to  be  informed  what  is  to  be  done  with  my  own 
garden.  Hugo  is  only  restrained  by  urgent 
authority  from  carrying  the  imitation  further 
and  spitting  upon  his  hands. 

"Well,"  said  Hugo  thoughtfully,  "the  sea 
may  be  bigger  than  our  pond  at  home,  but  it  has 
got  no  lilies  in  it.     Aha,  sea !  " 

And  Hugo  waved  his  hand  towards  the  Ger- 
man Ocean  and  called  the  game  about  square. 

But  Sweetheart  shook  her  head. 

"  He  just  says  it,"  she  repeated,  with  as 
superior  an  air  as  if  she  had  (recently)  been  to 
Oxford  ;  "  he  really  likes  the  sea  more  than  any 
of  us.  But,  you  see,  he  is  only  a  boy,  and  just 
says  it  for  contradiction." 

Sweetheart  is  not  going  to  be  a  critic.  On 
the  contrary,  she  sees  through  their  method. 
She  knows  that  they  just  say  it. 

But  I  knew  the  way  to  change  the  critic's 
tune.  I  set  him  to  a  little  original  construction 
on  his  own  account,  which  is  infallible.  The 
tide  was  just  coming  in,  so  we  all  took  our 
spades  and  went  down  to  the  last  tide-mark. 
There  we  staked  out  a  large  square,  about  which 
we  dug  a  trench,  throwing  the  sand  inward  till 


/  ENJOY  QUIET. 


275 


we  had  made  quite  a  high  castle.      Hugo  worked 
like  a  Trojan,  and  as  for  Sweetheart  she  worked 


"we  made  quite  a  high  casti.e. 


like  two.  Then  I  personally  undertook  the 
architecture.  After  much  thought  I  decided 
upon  using  the  composite  style,  and  the  result 


276  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

amply  justified  my  choice.  It  was  decidedly 
composite. 

We  had  a  donjon  tower.  None  of  us  knew 
in  the  least  what  a  donjon  tower  was,  but  for  all 
that  we  said,  "Hush!  let  us  make  a  donjon 
tower."     So  that  was  the  kind  we  had. 

And  a  very  good  donjon  it  was.  For  one 
thing  it  had  temporary  windows,  which  is  a 
great  advantage  in  a  well-regulated  donjon.  For 
if  an  enemy  approaches  from  any  particular  side, 
all  we  have  to  do  is  just  to  hit  the  threatened  part 
a  flap  with  the  flat  of  the  spade.  And  there  you 
are  !  That  whole  side  of  the  tower  is  safely  de- 
fended from  all  attack.  Because  why — there  is 
no  opening  by  which  an  enemy  can  possibly  enter. 

"You  can't  take  a  place,"  said  Hugo  per- 
tinently, "  unless  you  have  some  hole  to  crawl 
in  by."  So,  as  you  see,  our  temporary  windows 
in  the  donjon  keep  were  a  great  advantage. 
We  are  going  to  get  out  a  patent,  and  make  all 
other  builders  of  donjons  pay  for  using  our 
temporary  windows.  Who  knows  but  we  may 
yet  make  a  fortune  ! 

Then  we  made  corner  towers,  which  did  very 
well  so  long  as  Sir  Hugo  did  not  trample  too 
hard  in  the  middle  of  the  castle.     For  this  was 


1  ENJOY  QUIET.  277 

sure  to  shake  them  down,  or  at  least  to  crack 
them  as  badly  as  if  a  ramping  young  earthquake 
had  rambled  tluit  wa)'.  These  were  not  quite  so 
great  successes  as  the  donjon  tower.  For  when 
(as  )'ou  shall  hear)  we  let  the  water  into  the 
moat,  it  took  one  of  us  standing  on  the  outside 
all  the  time  and  building  up  the  walls  to  keep 
them  from  melting  into  the  tide  altogether. 
"Just  like  brown  sugar  in  tea,"  said  Sweetheart, 
who  sometimes  buys  a  pennywortli  of  that  kind 
for  her  common  afternoon  tea-parties.  Dollies 
get  so  much  milk  in  their  tea  that  the)-  are  not 
critical  about  the  quality  of  their  sugar.  Even 
the  end  of  a  barley-sugar  stick  has  been  known 
to  serve  upon  occasion.     And  very  nicely,  too. 

We  worked  hard,  and  soon  we  had  erected  a 
most  noble  castle,  with  a  hioh  drawbridc^e  over 
a  moat  two  feet  wide  and  more  than  a  foot  deep 
at  the  deepest  part.  P))-  this  time  we  had  quite 
a  crowd  observing  our  operations,  and  no  end 
of  offers  of  assistance.  Sweetheart  engaged 
labourers  at  a  halfi)cnny  a-piece,  or  twenty  pins, 
and  bring  your  own  spades.  Quite  a  number 
I)aid  (for  it  was  the  volunteers  who  had  to  pay 
for  their  places),  more  than  we  could  accommo- 
date round  the  moat.     So  that  some   of   those 


278  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

who  were  out  of  work  even  clamoured  either  for 
occupation  or  their  money  back. 

Soon  we  had  all  the  elements  of  a  riot  on  our 
hands,  and  there  is  no  saying-  what  might  have 
happened.  The  military  might  have  had  to  be 
called  out.  For  there  was  one  urchin  (he  was 
the  only  one  who  had  not  paid  any  pins)  who 
showed  signs  of  haranguing  the  malcontents  in 
the  usual  Tower  Hill  way.  He  was  evidently 
an  embryo  organiser  and  delegate.  But  Hugo 
promptly  clubbed  him  over  the  head  with  a 
spade  and  bade  him  "Hush!"  So  we  had  no 
more  trouble.  Which  is  not  at  all  the  way  that 
things  happen  in  real  life.  Though  Sweetheart 
said  she  would  not  care  a  button  if  they  did  turn 
out  the  military.  She  knew  all  the  officers. 
They   always  wanted  to  kiss   her. 

When  it  was  finished,  such  a  castle  as  ours 
had  not  been  seen  on  any  seaboard  for  years. 
At  last  the  moat  was  completed  and  the  bridge 
thrown  across.  We  dug  a  trench  to  the  sea  and 
let  the  water  in.  It  poured  along  with  a  gush 
like  the  opening  of  a  sluice.  And  it  had  the 
loveliest  yellow  froth  creaming  on  the  top,  which 
made  it  look  all  right,  nice  and  old  and  smelly, 
when  it  got  into  the  moat. 


/  ENJOY  QUIET.  279 

Four  boys  fell  into  the  ditch,  one  after  the 
other,  trying  to  straddle  across.  Sweetheart 
was  not  popular  with  the  mothers  and  nurses 
on  the  sands  that  afternoon.  We  heard  after- 
ward that  at  least  two  of  the  boys  had 
their  truusers  dried  as  carpets  are  cleaned, 
by  friction — which  is  said  to  be  one  of  the 
oldest  and  most  successful  methods  in  the 
world. 

The  ruins  of  the  castle  could  be  traced  for 
nearly  a  week,  for  ours  happened  to  be  one  of 
the  highest  tides  of  the  month.  And  as  Sweet- 
heart said,  "It  took  a  regular  one-er  to  knock 
down  our  hump." 

I  cannot  think  where  she  picks  up  such  words. 
They  are,  I  presume,  seafaring  terms. 

And  the  best  of  it  was  the  bread  and  butter 
which  Hucro  the  critic  interviewed  and  reviewed 
when  he  went  home.  He  both  cut  it  up  and 
buttered  it  himself.  Now  the  ordinary  critic 
strictly  confines  himself  to  the  first.  Besides 
which  Sweetheart  indexed  and  arranged  three 
kinds  of  jam  upon  her  plate.  And  they  both 
drank  real  tea  (only  half  milk)  so  rapidly  that  it 
could  not  be  brewed  fast  enough.  And,  above 
all,  were  there  not   real   undeniable  freckles,  as 


28o  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

big  as  sixpences  and  as  brown  as  berries,  which 
the  sunshine  of  the  seaside  was  bringing  out  ? 
For  with  ereat  deheht  both  Sweetheart  and 
Hugo  showed  me  the  accompHshed  desire  of 
their  hearts.  They  were  enveloped  in  a  very 
tan  of  freckles,  which  covered  their  faces  and 
hands  as  thickly  as  a  goodwife  spreads  country 
butter  upon  country  bread,  kneading  it  down 
with  her  thumb. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


THE    MISDEMEANOURS    OF    BINGO. 


TIME  brinofs  chanores.  The 
observation  is  not  exactly 
new,  yet  we  may  venture  to 
repeat  it.  For  the  man  who 
is  listened  to  is  the  man  who 
is  not  afraid  to  say  old  things 
over  and  over  again  in  his  own  way. 

The  name  of  Grim  Rutherland  has  been 
already  mentioned.  He  was  for  some  time  the 
"ridin'  hoss  of  de  rabbit  family."  But  in  these 
latter  days  he  has  retired  from  business,  and  (as 
is  customary  in  such  cases)  he  has  waxed  fat. 
Once  he  was  a  slim   young  collie,  frisking  after 

2S1 


282  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

a  stick  upon  a  Galloway  brae  face.  Now  he  is 
so  broad  across  the  back  that,  when  Hugo 
bestrides  him,  it  looks  exactly  like  the  young 
Bacchus  sitting  upon  a  barrel. 

There  is  yet  another  member  of  the  family,  of 
the  name  of  Bingo.  She  (for,  in  spite  of  the 
masculine  termination.  Bingo  is  a  lady)  occupies 
the  responsible  position  of  family  cat.  The  first 
time  it  was  my  privilege  to  see  Bingo,  she  was 
packed  in  cotton  wool  and  curled  in  a  little 
basket.  There  she  looked  the  sweetest,  gray, 
little  furry  kit  that  ever  was.  She  had  a  pale-blue 
ribbon  about  her  neck,  and  when  she  was  put 
into  Sweetheart's  bed  in  the  morning — well,  you 
should  just  have  seen  that  young  person's  eyes. 

''  Oh,  it  is  a  toy  kitten  !  "  she  cried  excitedly. 
For  it  was  the  loth  of  August,  Sweetheart's 
birthday  morning,  and  the  presents  were  begin- 
ning to  arrive.  But  when  the  "  toy  kitten  "  woke, 
yawned,  got  up,  stretched,  and  stepped  daintily 
over  the  edge  of  the  basket,  out  upon  the  cover- 
let of  the  cot — nay,  when  she  actually  mewed, 
Sweetheart  burst  out  into  a  passion  of  sobs. 
And  when  asked  the  reason  of  this  exhibition, 
she  could  only  say,  "  'Cause — 'cause  I  is  so 
happy." 


THE  MISDEMEANOURS  OF  BINGO.  283 

But  now  Bingo  is  well  stricken  in  years — 
that  is,  for  a  cat  who  dwells  in  a  house  on  the 
edge  of  the  woods.  Bingo  has  done  many  mis- 
demeanours, but  I  think  the  halo  of  that  tri- 
umi)hal  arrival  clings  to  her  still.  She  has 
brought  many  extraordinarily  short-lived  families 
into  the  world.  She  has  been  lost  for  days.  On 
several  occasions  she  has  retired  hastily  from 
the  dining-room  with  a  piece  of  fish  before  and 
a  slipper  behind  her — both  in  immediate  contact 
with  her  person.  For  Bingo  is  occasionally  a 
shameless  thief.  At  the  best,  she  is  but  indif- 
ferent honest.  She  would  not  perhaps  steal  a 
leg  of  beef,  but  I  would  not  trust  her  alone  with 
a  salmon.  Bingro  migrht  be  trusted  with  untold 
gold,  but  certainly  not  with  a  full-flavoured  red 
herrinor. 

Again,  Bingo  is'  a  fair  (or  rather  a  foul) 
weather  friend.  In  summer  she  is  jumpy  and 
shy — -farouche,  as  one  of  her  admirers  says.  In 
the  summer  season,  when  soft  is  the  sun,  she 
pursues  the  unwary  hedge-sparrow  and  the  reck- 
less robin  with  the  fellest  intensity  of  feline 
cunninor.  Then,  bcino-  well  able  to  fend  for 
herself,  she  will  hardly  recognise  her  nearest  and 
dearest. 


284  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

But  at  the  first  gliff  of  winter  she  will  go  out 
at  the  back  door,  dodge  round  the  house,  and 
appear  upon  the  window-ledge  of  the  study. 
There  she  sits  and  mews  so  piteously  that,  though 
I  am  well  acquainted  with  the  deceit,  I  have  per- 
force either  to  rise  and  sJioo  her  away,  or  open 
the  window  and  let  her  in.  It  is  much  easier  to 
do  the  latter,  a  fact  which  Bingo  counts  upon. 
So,  as  a  consequence,  the  insidious  beast  spends 
a  large  portion  of  the  cold  months  lying  before 
my  fire  upon  the  warmest  spot  of  my  hearth- 
rug. 

But  in  the  summer  she  will  scarcely  notice  me 
at  all.  It  is,  in  fact,  as  difficult  to  attract  her 
attention  as  that  of  the  schoolboy  whose  hamper 
has  just  come  from  home.  Bingo  makes  one 
exception,  just  enough  to  show  that  she  is 
human — I  don't  mean  feminine.  She  cherishes 
a  romantic  affection  for  Sir  Hugo,  and  this  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  sturdy  rogue  habitually 
abuses  her — that  is, when  he  takes  any  notice  of 
her  at  all,  which  is  not  often. 

Meekly  and  devotedly  will  the  enamoured 
Bingo  follow  those  twinkling  fat  legs  through  all 
the  devious  windings  of  a  long  summer  day. 
She  trots  a  few  yards  after  him,  pulls  up,  and 


THE  MISDEMEANOURS  OF  BINGO.  285 

arches  her  tail  over  her  back.     Then  she  looks 


.  -,V(  vv. ^  ■ .. .•  V  •  aflfiw^ -'S' , ;  --i'^Sii 


MEEKLY   AND   DEVOTEDLY   WILL   BINGO    FOLLOW. 


about  her,  and  presently  comes  trotting  on  again. 


2  86  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

Anyone  who  is  near  can  hear  that  she  is  purring 
all  the  time.  Hugo  may  shoot  arrows  at  her. 
He  may  carry  her  long  distances  by  the  tail — a 
thing  which,  attempted  by  any  gentler  hand, 
would  certainly  drive  Bingo  into  ten  concen- 
trated furies.      But  she  only  purrs  the  louder. 

Or  the  young  tyrant  makes  her  "be  a  load  of 
sand."  He  carts  her  about,  tied  with  ignominy 
to  his  waseon  wheels,  and  she  loves  him  for  it. 
Sweetheart  privately  thinks  all  this  rather  shock- 
ing. She  does  not  understand  why  Bingo 
should  behave  so.  For,  after  all,  Bingo  is  her 
cat.  However,  I  cannot  conscientiously  say  that 
Sweetheart  is  wholly  free  from  blame.  For  she 
has  taken  little  interest  in  Bingo  ever  since  she 
grew  up. 

Sweetheart  wants  to  know  why  it  is  that  cats 
are  so  much  happier  when  they  are  kittens,  and 
little  girls  when  they  are  grown  up.  It  may  be 
because  in  both  cases  they  have  then  no  lessons 
to  do.  She  thinks  that  a  machine  for  keeping 
cats  kittens  all  the  time  would  achieve  a  great 
and  a  deserved  success.  She  is  of  opinion  that 
the  inventor  would  be  sure  to  make  a  lot  of 
money.  Sweetheart  would  take  two  machines 
herself,   "to    encourage    the    poor   man."      She 


THE  MISDEMEANOURS  OF  BINGO.  287 

knows  that  that  is  the  proper  way  to  speak  of 
authors  and  inventors. 

Now,  above  all  things,  Sweetheart  likes  to 
play  at  going  to  church.  She  can  make  a  very 
fair  congregation  out  of  her  dressed  dolls  alone, 
and  at  a  pinch  she  does  not  mind  officiating  in 
the  pulpit  herself.  But  she  does  not  think  it  at 
all  proper  that  Hugo  should  be  allowed  to  make 
Bingo  sit  up  with  her  front  paws  together,  for 
all  the  world  like  the  minister  saying  his  prayers. 
And  it  only  makes  the  matter  worse  that  our 
black  Binofo  is  coloured  white  from  the  neck 
down  "  on  the  front  side,"  as  Sweetheart  says. 

Sweetheart  draws  the  line  at  havino-  Bin^o  for 
preacher  in  her  church.  But  Hugo  says  sweetly, 
"  That's  just  because  you  can't  make  her  do  it 
yourself ! " 

"  So  like  "&.  boy  !  "  replies  Sweetheart,  as  before, 
with  the  same  weary  patience  and  resignation. 
She  has  had  large  experience  of  boys,  and  has 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  they  are  all  alike — 
alike  bad,  that  is. 


^1^ 


CONWAY  CASTLE. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 


WHEN    LOVE    WAS    IN    THE    MAKING. 

{A  Chapter  contributed  by  Two  Older  Sweethearts.) 

"  This  was  the  garb  the  World  wore 
When  Love  and  I  were  Twenty-four." 

V  is  again  that  pleasant  land, 
the  Welsh  country  of  Chris- 
tian surnames  and  liquid  con- 
sonants. There  is  about  it 
less  paint,  but  more  whitewash, 
than  about  the  Dutch  model 
villages  —  something  warmer,  kindlier,  less 
formal,    nearer   to    the    simple  life    of  the  soil. 

288 


WHEiY  LOVE    WAS  IN   THE  MAKING.  289 

So  we  two  Sweethearts  will  tell  you  a  little 
more  of  morning  and  noon  and  evening  in  Ap 
Jones's  land  ;  more,  too,  of  Ap  himself,  of  Ap's 
wife,  and  all  his  little  Aps,  and  especially  of 
what  we  thought  of  them  and  they  of  us. 

Generally  speaking,  Ap  shows  himself  broad 
in  face  and  figure,  bland  in  smile,  with  a  lurking 
native  curiosity  which  causes  him  to  interest 
himself  in  the  most  catholic  manner  in  every  one 
else's  business — specially  in  the  erratic  ongo- 
ings of  the  mad  Saxons,  whose  money  he  rejoices 
to  handle,  but  whose  sanity  he  wholly  contemns. 

Mrs.  Ap,  upon  acquaintance,  proves  shrill- 
voiced  and  communicative.  She  is  given  to 
fluent  gossip  and  hard  work,  and  further  to 
bringing  up,  in  grave  and  God-fearing  way,  her 
extensive  progeny. 

Young  Ap  is  vociferous  and  vehement  with 
his  brothers  and  sisters — shy,  suspicious,  fur- 
tively desirous  of  small  gratuities  with  the  alien. 
Young  Ap's  sister  mostly  watches  us  from  behind 
her  mother's  gown,  and,  when  brought  to  bay, 
she  dashes  her  elf-locks  impulsively  out  of  her 
gleaming  gipsy  eyes.  But  all  of  them  are  well 
acquainted  with  the  properties  of  soap.  In  fact, 
they  do  not  sufficiently  wash  it  off  after  copious 


290  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

morning  applications,  which  oftentimes  gives 
their  faces  a  peculiarly  sleek  and  even  glossy 
appearance. 

In  the  flatter  parts  of  Ap  Jones's  land  (com- 
paratively flat,  that  is)  are  to  be  found  small 
farms  with  small  fields,  and  small  houses  with 
small  rooms.  In  fact,  Ap  delights  in  subdivision. 
In  the  wilder  parts  the  land  runs  mostly  to 
mountains,  which  the  owner  encloses  in  stone 
walls  of  incredible  height  and  stoutness,  like  the 
pictures  one  sees  in  the  magazines  of  the  Great 
Wall  of  China. 

Ap  Jones  will  fence  anything.  He  will  run  a 
stone  wall  straight  up  a  precipice — as  we  found 
to  be  the  case  on  the  steepest  of  all  his  moun- 
tains, the  Tryfan,  at  the  head  of  Nant  Francon. 
He  will  fence  a  small  garden  or  a  bathing-machine, 
Snowdon  or  a  patch  on  the  hillside  upon  which 
grows  a  cabbage  and  four  leeks.  Then  he  puts 
up  a  notice  to  trespassers,  and,  like  a  very  lord 
of  the  manor,  he  stands  at  the  gate  smoking  his 
pipe,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets — "  same  as  a 
town  man,"  as  Uncle  Remus  would  say. 

We  two  older  Sweethearts  have  long  ago  found 
out  that  the  fairies  have  not  left  off  haunting  the 
old  land,  but  that  now  they  are  mostly  beneficent. 


WHEN  LOVE    WAS  IN    THE  MAA'IXG.  291 

Even  the  weather  fairy  Is  generally  propitious, 
or  at  least  equitable.  This  August  morning,  at 
least,  there  came  a  delicious  breath  of  air  in  our 
faces,  wafted  from  nowhere  that  we  could  see. 
We  thought  that  it  must  be  the  wind  of  the 
fairies'  wings,  and  we  were  sure  that  the  little 
people  have  exquisite  taste  in  perfume,  with  some 
preference  for  new-mown  hay.  The  sea  was  very 
bright  and  sparkled  blue  under  the  early  sun. 
The  air  was  clear  beyond  telling,  for  the  rain  had 
all  come  down  in  the  night,  and  was  now  going 
rejoicingly  up  again  in  the  springing  greenery. 

We  were  on  this  occasion,  to  begin  with, 
travelling  by  train,  and  we  sped  quickly  enough 
through  the  wooded  valleys,  till  we  burst  in  a 
moment  upon  the  Conway, 

It  was  a  slow  train,  as  the  custom  of  the  country 
is,  and  the  pace  was  not  so  breakneck  as  to  pre- 
vent earthy  scents  of  last  year's  leaves  reaching 
us,  of  fresh  wet  orrass,  all  mineled  witli  the  odour 
of  the  salt  sea  and  the  bleaching  seaweed  on  the 
shore.  These  came  across  us  in  blended  wafts 
defying  analysis. 

Our  fellow-travellers  were  exceedingly  inter- 
esting to  us  ;  perhaps  we  also  to  them. 

Here,  for  instance,  was  a  girl  who  fascinated 


292  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

US,  off  whom,  indeed,  we  could  not  keep  our 
eyes.  She  was  curiously  and  wonderfully  clothed. 
Either  she  was  wearing  some  one  else's  dress,  or 
the  tender  mercies  of  the  Cymric  dressmaker  had 
been  cruel.  The  garment  was  tight  where  it 
should  have  been  loose,  and  vice  versa.  Fasci- 
nating speculations  got  afloat  about  it.  The 
victim  had  got  into  it  so  that  obverse  was  reverse. 
She  was  born  so.  She  had  orrown  like  that  erad- 
ually,  laying  on  additions  as  necessity  dictated, 
like  the  farm  outhouses  in  Norway.  Or  she  was 
carrying  her  library  in  that  large  cubical  capacity 
behind,  as  one  of  us  used  to  carry  Scott  and 
Thackeray,  or,  as  it  might  be,  "  Nick  of  the 
Woods,"  beneath  his  waistcoat  into  places  where 
literature  of  that  kind  was  under  the  greater 
interdict.  This  hump  meant,  perhaps,  a  pocket 
Shakespeare,  this  table-land  a  quarto  atlas,  this 
avalanche  an  edition  of  a  particularly  voluminous 
romancer.  This  soft,  spongy  mass  was  an  anti- 
quated Mudie  novel  in  three  volumes But 

at  this  time  she  got  out  at  a  wayside  station,  and 
as  library  and  librarian  vanished  with  mighty 
tread  past  the  ticket-collector,  we  were  left  with 
our  problems  unsolved,  but  with  appetites  sharp- 
ened for  further  inquiry. 


WHEN  LOVE    WAS  IN   THE   MAKING.  293 

We  had  been  so  busy  spying  upon  others 
that  we  had  not  observed  two  pairs  of  eyes 
which  had  been  watching  us  from  opposite 
corner  seats — one  pair  sharp  and  uncompromis- 
ing, the  other  childish,  faded,  and  somewhat 
watery. 

They  belonged  to  a  couple  of  decayed  gentle- 
women, we  decided — old  maids  trying  to  snatch 
a  holiday  away  from  their  struggling  second-rate 
"  School  for  Young  Ladies  "  in  some  provincial 
town.  Poor  things  !  we  reflect,  their  occupation 
and  doorplate  of  burnished  brass  are  almost 
gone.  Secondary  education  and  the  School 
Board  have  banished  at  a  breath  their  lean  pro- 
priety and  gentility  as  stiff  as  figured  brocade. 
The  elder  sister,  in  tinted  glasses,  ancient 
spotted  veil,  and  severe  black  reticule,  regarded 
us  wintrily  over  her  prominent  pinched  nose. 
The  younger,  with  weak,  characterless  face, 
pale,  mobile  mouth,  looked  somewhat  wistfully 
at  us  out  of  her  babyish  eyes.  Both  might 
have  stepped  out  of  a  pre-Waverley  romance, 
and  their  names  might  have  been  Selina  and 
Amelia.  The  younger  tried  to  get  some  enjoy- 
ment out  of  reading  passages  from  the  guide- 
book   to  her  elder  sister.      But   it   was  without 


294  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

animation,  as  knowing  the  performance  to  be  a 
sham.  In  a  little  while  she  subsided,  and 
handed  the  book  to  her  sister,  who  instantly 
locked  it  into  her  reticule  with  a  snap  which 
said,  "  Stay  there,  and  don't  make  a  fool  of 
yourself  any  more  !  "  So  the  tired  gray  woman 
leaned  herself  back  to  watch  us,  conscious,  per- 
haps, of  a  time  when  life  had  not  narrowed 
itself  down  to  one  grim  sister  and  a  few  gawky 
schoolgirls.  It  did  not  seem  so  long  ago  since 
she  used  to  read  the  poets  in  carefully  edited 
selections  with  gilt  edges.  And  is  there  not 
somewhere  a  little  white  book,  tear-stained,  tied 
with  blue  ribbon,  scented  with  lavender,  in  which 
are  certain  orioinal  verses  written  in  a  delicate 
handwriting,  "  almost  as  good  as  those  of  dear 
Mrs.  Hemans "  ?  Was  there  not  a  little  old 
love-story  hidden  away  back  in  the  dim  past ; 
and  has  the  quick  flushing  of  that  pale  cheek 
made  some  man's  heart  beat  faster?  But  Selina 
set  her  foot  on  the  poor  little  heart-plant,  and 
crushed  the  life  out  of  it.  ("  No  one  can  resist 
Selina,  you  know,  my  dears ;  she  always  was  so 
positive ! ") 

"Bettws!    Bettws!    BETTWS  !  "    came    in 
Celtic  C7'escendo  from  tlie  porters  as  we  ground 


WHEN  LOVE    WAS  I.V    THE   MAKLVG  295 

to  a  Standstill.  "  Be  quick  ;  we  get  out  here  !  " 
cried  Sclina.  It  broke  sharply  into  poor 
Amelia's  reveries,  and  into  ours.  There  was  an 
accent  in  her  words  which,  being  interpreted, 
meant  "  and  travelling  is  too  serious  a  business 
for  silly  mooning  !  " 

"  Good-bye,  Amelia,"  we  murmured,  as  we 
moved  groaning  out,  and  saw  the  wistful  eyes 
still  regarding  us,  while  Selina  was  vigorously 
directing  the  attention  of  a  reluctant  porter  to 
their  scanty  belongings. 

The  interior  interest  had  now  departed,  and 
we  turned  our  eyes  to  the  scenery  as  it  streamed 
past  our  windows. 

We  were  ascendinor  a  lono;  incline.  Listen  to 
the  heavy  chay-chay  of  the  overtaxed  engine. 
We  were  glad  when  the  telegraph  poles  went 
past  at  an  easy  walk,  because  it  gave  us  time  to 
observe  a  pretty  enough  pastoral. 

What  was  that  our  sharp  eyes  noted,  forsaken 
in  a  "  field's  high  corner"  ?  Not,  indeed,  "  coat, 
basket,  and  earthen  cruise,"  but  white  umbrella, 
rack- work  easel,  and  battered  japanned  box. 
Chapter  first  of  a  circulating  library  romance  ! 
Chapter  the  second  opened  in  a  hayfield  a  little 
way    along — haymakers  raking  the    hay,  prom- 


296  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

inent    amono-   them   the  farmer's   dauehter,  tall, 
well-girt,  and  bonnie,  playing  at  the  same. 

The  secret  was  a  secret  no  longer.  ''  Ars 
lo7iga,  amor  cBternus"  muttered  one  of  us.  Or, 
once  more,  words  to  that  effect.  Tremble,  oh, 
young  painters  !  all  of  you  who  ever,  on  any 
August  morning,  studied  pose,  passion,  and 
pastoral,  instead  of  copying  local  colour  and 
catching  fleeting  skies  in  the  upper  Conway 
valley.  But  our  four  eyes  were  sympathetic 
and  not  at  all  envious.  So  we  left  you,  know- 
ing that  to  you  exhibitions  are  a  pain,  picture- 
dealers  and  publishers  a  dream,  studios  and  life- 
schools  a  weariness  to  the  flesh.  For  what  is 
that  you  are  saying  ?  *'  What  is  the  Welsh  for 
love,  and  zvhat  is  the  zvord  for  szveetheart, 
and  zvhat  docs  one  say  zvhen  one  asks  for  a 
kiss  ?  " 

And  then  the  answer,  given  with  one  swift 
up-glance  from  under  the  shady  haymaker's 
bonnet  ?  "  One  does  not  say  anything  half  so 
foolish  in  Welsh,  sir.  And  if  you  are  going  to 
help  with  the  hay,  you  had  better  begin,  or  go 
back  to  your  painting  !  " 

We  are  not  going  to  open  the  third  volume 
at  the  last  page,  and   tell   you  whether  it  ends 


WHEN  LOVE    WAS  IN    THE  MAKING.  297 

with,  "  And  they  drove  off  amid  showers  of  rice. 
But  the  old  man  went  to  the  top  of  Snowdon, 
and  sat  there  sadly  during  the  rest  of  his  natural 
life."  Or  whether  it  was, as  the  forgotten  song 
says, 

"  Ade,  Ade,  Ade,  and  the  blue  Alsatian  mountains 
Keep  watch  and  ward  alway !  " 

You  can  take  your  choice.     We  have  made  ours. 

So,  unwillingly,  we  leave  theni  to  their  hay- 
making and  their  lovemaking,  and  the  long  up- 
hill journey  to  Ffestiniog  contains  nothing  one- 
half  so  interesting.  There  is  only  an  old  man 
going  a-fishing,  picturesque  but  ridiculous.  He 
is  standinyf  in  the  clearest  of  water  this  brioi^ht 
blue  morning,  industriously  whipping  the  stream. 
He  is  attired  in  coat  of  scarlet  and  leggings 
of  pure  white — a  laughing-stock  to  every  self- 
respecting  fish  for  miles.  He  calls  up  a  friend 
in  the  North  Countrie  who  had  to  be  prevented 
from  fishing  by  the  Local  Authority,  Board  of 
Fisheries,  or  something  of  the  kind,  because  his 
attempts  so  tickled  the  fish  that  ihey  strained 
themselves  with  laughing,  and  it  threatened  per- 
manently to  injure  the  breed. 

Do  you  know  anything  in  nature   more  seduc- 


298 


S IVEE  THEAR  T    TRA  VELLERS. 


tively  delightful  than  a  bypath  through  a  wood  ? 
You   cross  a  shallow   brook  by   four   steppino-- 


A   LAUGHING-STOCK   TO 

EVERY   SELF-RESPECTING  FISH.' 


i> 


Stones  in  order  to  find  yourself  in  it.  The  tall 
trees  stand  widely  about,  the  copses  nestle  close 
round  it,  a  birch-tree's  pendent  plume  brushes 


WHEN  LOVE    WAS  IN    THE   MAKING.  299 

across  your  face  like  your  lady's  love-locks  as 
you  turn  into  it.  Sunshine  glints  sprinklingly 
athwart  it.  Rabbits  "  j-^^/ "  across  it.  Squirrels 
drop  hazel  husks  and  shells  upon  it,  and  then 
disappear  with  the  flashing  of  a  russet  brush. 
Then,  again,  a  bypath  is  always  the  nearest  way, 
wherever  you  may  be  going.  It  is  certain  to 
cut  off  a  dull  corner.  There  is  no  dust  on  it. 
"  Let  us  go  this  way,"  we  say.  But  we  soon  for- 
got where  we  were  going  in  the  lingering  delight 
of  it.  By  pleasant  little  copses,  over  open  green 
swards,  among  bees  and  birds  and  flowers  who 
all  love  it  as  much  as  we,  over  stiles  and  betwixt 
hedges  it  goes ;  through  birch  plantations  that 
extend  down  to  the  riverside,  with  the  water's 
pleasant  murmur  coming  up  all  the  time  in  an 
undertone  of  sono-  from  beneath  the  leaves. 
The  birds  are  ever  clamorous  there,  and  insist 
upon  telling  each  other  what  a  paradise  it  is  this 
lucent,  cloudless  noontide.  And,  resting  on  a 
mossy  bank,  we  know  of  two  who  agree  with  them. 
So  we  descended  by  the  riverside  and  crossed 
a  stile,  high-tilted  like  the  roof  of  an  Alpine 
chalet.  Then  presently  we  found  ourselves  on 
a  picturesque  old  bridge,  and  continued  on  our 
way  down  the  valley  in  the  fervent  heat.     We 


300  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

saw   no  one  among  the  skirting  woods  or  any- 
where about  the  scattered  farms. 

At  the  next  bridge  we  turned  sharp  to  the 
left,  to  the  time-honoured  inn.  Here  we  had 
reason  to  wish  that  the  bread  and  mutton  had 
been  a  Httle  less  time-honoured.  Two  travellers, 
casuals  like  ourselves,  had  just  come  in — young 
cotton  operatives  from  Oldham,  walking  in  their 
Sunday  best.  They  looked  much  more  dusty 
and  travel-stained  than  we — not  from  any  virtue 
in  us,  but  because  cricketing-flannels  and  summer 
prints  possess  this  inherent  advantage  over  black 
broadcloth — that  they  are  both  cool  in  them- 
selves, and  look  cooler  than  they  are.  But  the 
travellers  were  honest,  hard-working,  rough-spun 
lads,  and  it  was  much  to  their  credit  to  be  thus 
tramping  the  worth  out  of  their  money  and  the 
sun  into  their  cheeks,  instead  of  spending  all  their 
living  in  one  grand  local  "  spree,"  or  at  the 
annual  saturnalia  of  the  "  Wakes." 

There  were  three  pianos  in  the  room,  each  in 
its  way  curiously  suggestive  of  the  lapse  of 
time.  The  first  was  old-fashioned,  low,  spindle- 
legged,  spinet-like,  full  of  quaint  pathos  and 
lavender  delicacy.  It  suggested  "teacup 
times,"  and  Squire  Western  growling  and  nod- 


WHEN  LOVE    WAS  IN    THE   MAKING.  301 

ding  his  head  as  his  daughter  Sophia  played 
him  to  sleep  to  the  tinkling  of  quaintly  dainty 
minuets.  The  second  was  of  the  earlier  part  of 
the  century,  recalling  a  faded  portrait  of  one's 
grand-aunt  under  the  Regency,  with  a  limited 
amount  of  ringlet  and  a  good  deal  of  compensat- 
ing shoulder.  Its  stiff,  organ-like,  high-backed 
case  was  panelled  with  crimson  silk,  now  happily 
faded  to  wine-stained  russet.  Still  there  was 
not  wanting  a  certain  old-maidish  dignity  about 
it,  which  completel)'  put  to  shame  the  smart 
Philistinism  of  the  brand-new  German  over  the 
way — with  its  gilt  pedals,  polished  mouldings, 
and  back  of  grass-green  silk. 

From  the  bridge  we  took  a  lingering  look  up 
and  down  the  beautiful  vale  lying  beneath  the 
afternoon  sun — a  very  lotus-looking  land — as 
still  as  it  was  in  the  days  before  ever  man  or 
any  creature  came  thither.  Our  two  last 
memories  of  the  day  were  peaceful  also.  They 
were  of  the  clatter  of  the  shoes  of  the  home-going 
quarrymen  along  the  streets  of  Ffestiniog  the 
Upper,  and  Conway  Castle  standing  lone  and 
purple  against  the  glowing  estuary  and  the 
broad  crimson  sunset. 

All  these — our  dear  old  maids,  our  lover  and 


302  SWEETHEART    TRAVELLERS. 

his  lass  in  the  valley  hay-field,  our  woodland 
path  and  mossy  bank,  our  brave  rough  Oldham 
lads — abode  still  with  us,  set  in  bracing  moun- 
tain air,  as  we  came  back  slowly  through  the 
cornfields. 

There  is  only  room  for  two  on  the  woodland 
path  among  the  birch  trees,  yet  many  pairs  of 
sweethearts  have  trodden  it,  and  many  more 
will  go  that  way. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

THE     TRANSMIGRATIONS     OF     THE      PRINCESS 

ME  LIN  DA. 


POSSESS  not  one  but  many 
Sweethearts  in  the  course  of  a 
day.  Yet  can  I  not  be  charged 
with  fickleness.  Hiere  is,  for 
instance,  the  early  morning  one. 
She  is  a  Sweetheart  of  intense  application,  and 
is  endued  with  qualities  quite  portentously  busi- 
nesslike. This  particular  Sweetheart  at  pres- 
ent occupies  the  uncovenanted  position  of 
under-gardener.      I  passed  her  this  morning  on 

303 


304  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

the  way  to  the  chalet.  She  was  carefully  brush- 
ing the  leaves  off  the  path,  and  picking  the 
weeds  which  will  persist  in  growing  along  the 
borders. 

"  You  would  not  believe  how  trying  these 
weeds  are  !  "  she  said,  as  I  passed,  without  paus- 
ing for  a  moment,  or  even  looking  at  me.  Up 
came  the  weed  !  Whisk  went  the  garden  brush, 
or  rather  besom  of  stiff  birch  twigs.  This 
Sweetheart  must  not  be  interfered  with,  except 
at  one's  peril.  There  is  no  time  for  nonsense 
or  philandering  with  such  a  very  practical  per- 
son. In  fact,  you  may  look,  but  you  must  not 
touch. 

But  this  morning  energy  of  hers  takes  many 
forms.  Sweetheart  shows,  indeed,  no  very 
marked  persistence  in  any  particular  occupation. 
A  week  ago,  to  my  certain  knowledge.  Sweet- 
heart was  an  enthusiastic  under-housemaid,  and 
the  dust  she  was  raising  in  the  passage  showed 
how  thoroughly  she  was  mistress  of  her  busi- 
ness. It  made  me  cough  full  five  minutes  by 
the  clock,  and,  when  next  Sweetheart  applies  for 
a  place,  I  am  prepared  to  state  the  fact  on  oath 
in  the  usual  testimonial — or  character,  as  I  be- 
lieve it  is  called  in  the  profession. 


THE   PRINCESS  ME  LINDA.  305 

But  all  through  the  fruit  season,  in  spite  of 
all  temptations,  Sweetheart  sticks  to  the  post  of 
under-gardener,  that  is,  the  one  who  pulls  the 
fruit  and  sends  it  in  to  the  cook. 

"  Sweetheart,  what  are  you  doing  ? "  I  called 
out  one  day  last  June,  when  I  happened  to  see  a 
blue-bloused  figure  bending  among  the  straw- 
berry-beds. 

"  Pulling  strawberries  for  lunch,  father,"  she 
answered  readily — almost  too  readily, 

"And  where  have  you  got  the  basket?"  I 
asked. 

"  Here  it  is,"  said  Sweetheart,  lifting  one 
from  between  the  leaves. 

"  Oh,"  said  I,  "  I  was  afraid  that  you  might 
have  been  compelled  to  use  your  mouth.  I  saw 
your  hand  going  there  so  often  that  I  thought 
you  must  have  forgotten  an  ordinary  basket." 

"It  was  only  one  or  two  mushy  ones  that 
broke  off  in  m\-  hand,"  said  Sweetheart  re- 
proachfully, and  with  such  an  innocence  in  her 
up-looking  eyes  as  almost  to  make  me  call  my- 
self a  brute  for  my  unjust  suspicions. 

One  day  I  saw  Sweetheart  shelling  peas  on 
the  garden-seat,  with  only  a  doll  stuck  up  stiffly 
in  one  corner  for  company.      I  stole  up  "  unbe- 


3o6  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

knowns"  behind  her.  She  was  talking  to  her- 
self :  "  And  the  prince  dived  down  again  to  the 
bottom  of  the  sea  and  brought  up  another 
oyster-shell  full  of  most  precious  pearls,  and 
gave  it  to  the  princess.  Then  the  princess  took 
the  shells  in  her  lily-white  hands,  and  with  taper 
rosy  fingers  she  opened  them,  till  all  her  apron — 
no,  her  royal  mantle  I  mean,  of  course — was  full 
of  the  radiant  pearls." 

This  is  what  she  was  saying,  for  Sweetheart 
in  her  plays  talks  by  the  book,  or  at  least  as  like 
it  as  ever  she  can. 

Suddenly  she  looked  over  her  shoulder, 
moved  by  a  subtle  knowledge  of  someone  near. 
She  was  instantly  silent.  It  came  to  me  with 
a  moment's  pain  that  one  short  year  ago  she 
would  not  so  have  silenced  her  romancing  for 
my  coming.  Now  I  know  very  well  that  my 
Sweetheart  will  grow  past  me  one  of  these  days. 
I  fear  it  will  be  I  who  must  lose  my  "little 
'panion."  Already  she  has  her  secret  plans, 
her  plots,  her  schemes,  her  prodigious  secrets. 
Most  of  these  she  still  confides  to  me,  but  the 
number  she  does  not  tell  me  will  gradually 
increase. 

I    know    that  it  must  be    so,  and  I   do    not 


THE  PRINCESS  MEIJXDA.  307 

repine.  But  I  would  keep  the  little  heart  0[)en 
as  long  as  I  can,  and  for  my  own  good  be,  like 
her,  wayward  and  childlike,  a  comrade  of  the 
child's  thought  and  the  child's  play, 

"  Princess,"  I  said  to  her,  "  let  me  play  your 
play.  I  will  be  the  prince  who  dives  down  into 
the  sea.  I  cannot  be  a  very  elegant  Prince 
Charming,  but  at  least  I  shall  be  very  willing 
and  faithful.  I  will  bring  you  gold  and  jewels 
done  up  in  precious  caskets  of  sandal-wood  and 
costly  veined  malachite." 

She  glanced  up  with  eyes  keen  as  love,  quick 
as  life. 

"Is  father  in  earnest?"  she  was  asking  her- 
self.      I  could  see  the  thought  in  her  eyes. 

Indeed  I  was  never  more  in  earnest  in  my 
life.  My  service  was  accepted.  I  expected  it, 
for  above  all  things  she  likes  the  sound  of  fine 
words.  So  I  raided  fiercely  upon  the  pea-sticks, 
and  brought  back  noble  handfuls  of  the 
pods. 

"  Fair  Princess  Melinda,"  I  said,  "  light  of  the 
palace,  Princess  of  the  Golden  Crown,  accept 
these  trifles  which  the  meanest  of  thy  slaves 
brings  thee.  They  are  reft  for  thy  sweet  sake 
from  the   halls  of  the    King  of  the   Sea — costly 


308  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

emeralds  are  they,  and  aqua-marine,  translucent 
as  the  nethermost  ocean." 

Sweetheart  holds  up  her  pinafore  for  the  gift, 
bending  her  head  and  smiling  graciously  the 
while.  "  I  like  you  to  speak  proudly  like  that," 
she  says.      "  I  do  so  love  fine  picture  words." 

And  so  I  pour  out  all  the  jewelled  words  five 
syllables  long  that  I  can  remember,  and  when, 
like  the  prodigal,  I  have  spent  mine  all  thus 
riotously,  I  set  to  work  to  invent  more.  And  so 
on  till  Princess  Melinda  of  the  Pinafore  has 
in  her  lap  more  than  enough  of  the  treasured 
preciousness  of  the  ages — smaragdus,  cornelian, 
topaz,  chrysolite,  chrysoprasus,  jacinth — all  bear- 
ing, however,  a  strong  family  likeness  not  only 
to  each  other,  but  also  to  the  domestic  pea,  to 
which,  in  spring,  the  thoughts  of  men  turn  so 
lightly  in  connection  with  roast  duck, 

"  Oh,  Sweetheart,"  cried  the  Lady  of  the 
Workbasket,  coming  just  then  to  the  place 
where  we  were  sitting,  "  you  have  shelled 
enough  for  two   days." 

In  a  moment  the  princess  was  herself  again. 

"Well,  mother,"  she  cried,  "that  is  easy. 
Have  peas  to-morrow  for  dinner  as  well." 

I  looked  at  Sweetheart  and  Sweetheart  looked 


THE  PKLVCESS  ME  LIN  DA.  309 

at  me.  I  knew  what  was  in  her  niind.  hut  I  ditl 
not  tell.  To-morrow  at  eventide  she  will,  I  fear, 
certainly  lie  in  wait  in  the  hall  as  the  dishes  are 
being  brought  out,  and  like  a  pirate  bold  levy 
contributions  of  diamond,  sapphire,  and  veined 
agate  of  the  sea.  But  this  is,  after  all,  no  more 
than  the  risfht  of  the  Princess  Mclinda.  Fordid 
not  her  own  Prince  Charming  (save  the  mark) 
bring  the  jewels  at  his  peril  from  the  Sea  King's 
palace  among  the  pea-sticks  in  the  fastnesses  of 
the  kitchen  garden  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"  GOOD-NIGHT,    SWEETHEART  !  " 


UT  for  a  moment  more  I  must 
return  to  my  various  Sweethearts. 
After  the  appHcation  of  the  morn- 
ing" has  dulled  the  eager  edge  of 
J  diligence,  arrives  once  more  the 
Sweetheart  of  riotous  play — the  same  for  whom 
I  looked  in  vain,  that  day  when  I  walked  about 
so  long  enjoying  the  blessed  quiet.  This  Sweet- 
heart needs  no  herald  to  go  before  her.  You  can 
hear  her  approach  quite  a  mile  off. 

When  she  comes  there  is  a  sound  of  distant 
revelry,  a  gleam  of  fluttering  kirtles  winking 
through  the  woods,  a  barking  of  dogs,  a  crack- 
ling of  branches.  Presently,  scratched,  flushed, 
dishevelled,  toused,  Sweetheart  appears  with 
Hugo  in  full  chase  after  her,  and  the  pair  roll 
over  each  other  on  the  grass,  gripping  and  nip- 
ping like  young  puppies  at  their  play.  This 
same  wild  romp,  who  has  to  go  back  a  hundred 

310 


'  •  GOOD-NIGH  T,    S IVEE  THE  A  RT!"  311 

yards  to  find  her  hat,  who  scatters  her  buttons 
and  distributes  her  slioe-strin^rs  over  a  leaofue  of 
ground,  is  just  our  model  liousemaid  and  unchr- 
gardener  of  an  hour  a*;o.  I  state  it  upon  oatli, 
attested  by  the  seeing  of  the  eye  and  the  hear- 
in^  of  the  ear. 

In  the  afternoon  you  will  find  yet  another 
Sweetheart  on  a  seat  in  the  shade  with  a  fairy 
book — blue,  green,  red,  or,  as  it  may  be,  yellow. 
She  is  deep  in  tales  of  prince  and  princess, 
goblin  and  fairy,  and  she  is  hoping  that  it  will  be 
a  long  time  before  she  comes  to  the  part  about 
them  being  married  and  living  happy  ever  after. 
Of  course  that  must  come  in  time,  for  Sweet- 
heart justly  resents  any  other  ending.  But,  for 
all  that,  it  must  not  come  too  soon.  If  it 
arrives  before  she  is  ready  for  it.  Sweetheart 
decides  that  the  writer  man  does  not  know  his 
business. 

Sometimes  it  is  not  a  fairy  book  which  Sweet- 
heart holds.  I  found  her  the  other  da)-  dc&j:) 
nestled  in  an  arbour  with  a  most  rare  and  valu- 
able octavo — nothing  less  than  the  first  edition 
of  the  Catechisms  of  the  very  venerable  W^est- 
minster  Assembly  of  Divines  ;  a  book  to  which 
this  most  quaint  and  whimsy  of  maids  is  (for  the 


312  SWEETHEART   TRAVELLERS. 

time  being)  passionately  attached.  For  Sweet- 
heart is  a  perfectly  eclectic  lover  of  fine  words, 
upon  what  subject  soever  they  may  be  expended. 

She  really  and  genuinely  loves  the  roll  of  the 
great  dogmatic  sentences — involved,  turgid,  sur- 
charged with  the  thunders  of  a  thousand  years  of 
controversy.  "  God  is  a  Spirit,  Infinite,  Eternal, 
and  Unchangeable.  In  His  Being,  Wisdom, 
Power,  Holiness,  Justice,  Goodness,  and  Truth." 
Or,  again,  a  little  further  down,  "  God's  Works 
of  Providence  are  His  most  Holy,  Wise,  and 
Powerful  Preserving  and  Governing  all  His 
Creatures  and  all  their  Actions." 

Such  sentences  please  Sweetheart  like  the  roll 
of  drums.  And  if  her  understanding  lags  some 
way  behind  her  ear,  who  shall  cast  the  first  stone 
at  her  ? 

Once  more  :  in  the  afternoon  appears  the 
young  lady  who  can  very  politely  receive  and 
entertain  any  guest  in  the  absence  of  her  elders. 
This  is  the  Sweetheart  of  the  tea-party,  the 
drawing-room,  the  afternoon  call.  This  is  the 
grown-up  young  lady  who  smiles  reprovingly  or 
complacently  upon  the  childish  irresponsibility 
of  Hugo;  who  explains  his  doubtful  passages, 
suppresses    or    extemporises   the    context,    and 


'  *  GOOD-NIGHT,    S IVEE  THEAR  Tl"  ^i  i 

finally  leads  him  out  oentlv,  hut  firniK  ,  when  he 
misbehaves. 

But  1  have  yet  one  Sweetheart  more — she  of 
the  twilight.  And  for  a  name  we  call  her  our 
little  Miss  Wistful.  Sometimes  )Ou  may  come 
upon  her  sitting  very  still,  and  looking  out  at 
the  sky  with  eyes  that  are  unfathomable,  like  its 
depths — the  shadows  in  them  deep  as  night,  and 
with  lips  that  are  parted  with  the  wonder  of 
things  not  seen. 

The  day  has  been  long,  but  now  after  all  the 
time  approaches  to  say,  "Good-night,  Sweet- 
heart ! " 

A  little  sadly  shall  we  say  it,  for  as  the 
shadows  thicken,  the  time  begins  to  seem  long 
till  morning.  Sweetheart  saddens  at  the  th<Might 
of  separation.  The  dark  hours  are  but  a  barrier 
between  her  and  the  new  day. 

"I  shall  lie  awake,  father,"  she  says,  "till  you 
come  to  kiss  me  good-night." 

Yet  well  do  I  know  that  when  I  steal  to  the 
bedside,  through  the  chaste  hush  of  children's 
breathings,  I  shall  find  Sweetheart's  eyelids 
down,  and  a  smile  on  her  lips  which  means 
that  she  is  far  off  among  the  fairies,  dancing 
with  them  within  their  green  and  magic  rings. 


314 


S IVEE  THEAR  T    TRA  VELLERS. 


But  by-and-by,  just  before  the  dark  really 
comes,  if  you  walk  softly  enough  and  peep — 
just  round  the  nursery  door  you  will  hear  a 
sound  that  is  better  for  the  heart  than  much 
preaching  (for  I  who  write  have  tried  both  and 
know),  the  voice  of  a  little  child's  prayers. 

Amen  !  you  say.  So  may  it  be.  Even  thus, 
little  maid,  may  we  one  day  at  nightfall  lay  aside 
our  sins  and  be — well,  just  like  you. 

And  now,  good-night,  little  Sweetheart.  The 
good  God  Himself  keep  you,  and  His  best  angels 
ward  you,  soul  and  body,  from  all  the  evils  of 
all  the  nights. 


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